honesty box in the wicker confessional i lit a match & the priest said, "no not here." i am prone to drastic. not used to a calm farewell to the truth. once, i wrote suicide notes on toilet paper & flushed them. another time i scribbled a dead boy's phone number on the back of my hand for days until i worked up the courage to call & leave a voicemail. there's nothing heroic about the real real thing you mean to say. soften the blow with fireworks or tell god you are ready to fall in love again. dear god, i am not interested in sin. i want pleasure without the glint or the barcode. in hell there is a very long grocery store line & everyone is trying to buy ice cream. we watch as it melts onto the floor. some lick it up. i'm not that scared of going to the worst place. it can't be worse than admitting how easy it was for me to fog machine my way into a gender. who was the imprint on the window? who walked her knees down to the creek to practice meditation? i'm sick with a captial "c." often i think what about a do-over? then i think no no no that would be somehow worse. i don't hurt the priest. he's not even really there. he's just a vestment hanging on the back of a closet door. the secret is i don't ever want to fully recover from catholocism. what if i need an excorsism? what if i decide on gold? chalice? blood? it's best to keep all avenues open. girl in the sacristy lighting a match & snuffing it out on her forehead. using bangs to cover the singe. a mark is a sign you've been trying too hard to be alive. have you noticed clear-skin people are partically see-through? that's because they've got one foot out the door. there's no more door for me so i shouldn't talk. i'm firmly in place. or, at least, firmly enough.