A single dark screen shields his face from mine,
he who can absolve all my sins.
My legs shake as I drop to my knees,
overpowered with the weight of my betrayal.

Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned,
but I cannot remember the rest.
I press my fingers together, uplift my eyes,
sign of The Last Judgement over my head.

Angels stare down on me,
faces placid between brightly-colored wings.
The statue of the Madonna smiles benevolently,
crowned with a faded wreath of dead roses,
symbol of a spring that died too soon,
a tiara of innocence, a diadem of wasted beauty.

His silence bids me speak,
but I cannot answer.
The list of trespasses is long,
but here, under the stone-faced gaze of saints,
I cannot regret or remember.

So many sins to recall,
so many impure thoughts
burn my face with shameful memory.
So many nights of pleasure,
forbidden by that which I hold to be true.
And I cannot regret a single one of them.

Is the only path to righteousness in self-denial?
Does one book hold the answers
to a thousand moral questions?
Can one race, one creed, one way of life,
be "the one"?
Is all that I hold dear to me tainted,
because it is unsanctified?

Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned.
I clear my throat and find my voice.
I have sinned, forgive me, Father,
I cannot bring myself
to regret one forbidden moment.

I cross myself, and rise,
walking backwards, avoiding his gaze.
Unabsolved, I leave this sacred place.
Only that which hurts others
should be forbidden.
And only One can judge me.