subtext

I write as a form of confession,

Often whispering to an empty room,

With hope one hears, without hearing

Enough to exhume my paltry sins.

I bend these words like charms

To deflect, and absorb attention

From the demons chatting nearby.

I speak clearly, without seeking clarity:

Metaphors hold truths loosely

Like flowers proffer pollen to the bees.

Here I want you to understand,

To lean in next to my words softly

Enough to feel their breath on your lips.

For what purpose does confession serve

If a god is the only one who hears?