I must confess to you, my dear,

There’s something about the night

And the feeling of paper beneath ink

That draws out confessions like a canvas to the painter

 

I must confess to you, dear,

There’s something ironic in this pen

“suicide prevention” sprawled across its length

“suicide prevention,” more like prolonging the inevitable,

Hanging on to each breath as if it will be my last,

And resenting each breath that shackles me here.

 

I must confess to you, dear

I’ve been holding back.

I have to potential to be me, to be free, to be gleeful and joyful and glad

But I pull back

Afraid of what others think

Afraid to be me if that inconveniences you

 

I must confess to you, dear

I’m not perfect, though I like to pretend to be

I let people take advantage of me,

I allow for the influence of others to dictate what and who I like

I open my soul to everyone but never let anything escape through the door