Confession

The magnetic pull of absolution leaves me scrabbling for an absent faith.
An ache that cannot be eased by the bliss of the box.
Dark, cool wood scent cannot wash away this stain which mars me.

No anonymous perfumed words can remove my angst,
I cannot conjure saints or virgins to ease me back to purity.
The blood red beads tempt me from their exile to betray myself.

But I will not add stupidity to shame.
It is less easy to obtain forgiveness from one who is not a saint.
This confession is not merely a ritual.