MEA CULPA

Settling down 

Long enough 

To note 

My fear

Paying close attention, 

I hear

Dark voices 

Snicker in my head,

Knowing 

I will soon snap

And murder them

In cold blood

Their shrieks echo

A forewarning...

"Many more voices to be born."

A chant I get high on.

O this darkness...

Mea Culpa!

In the cradle 

Lies pain

Wrapped up 

Delicately

Comfortable in its sleep

I dread its waking

Yet I nurse it

Rocking

That daunting cradle

Back 

And forth

It creaks loudly

Taunting me;

"I wouldn't be sleeping for long.

Conscious 

Of my unconscious 

Anticipation

Of its waking

O this sweet agony...

Mea Culpa!

Before this canvas

I stand

Painting

A self portrait

Hours of brush-dipping

Colour dripping

Strokes 

And 

Strokes

And it's done

A canvas

Painted

Dark

Red

Its boldness mirroring me

"This is you, inside-out"

O this torturous vision...

Mea  Maxima Culpa!

Note: Mea culpa is a Latin phrase that translates into English as "through my fault". It is repeated three times in the prayer of confession at the Catholic Mass: mea culpa, mea culpa, mea maxima culpa — "through my fault, through my fault, through my most grievous fault".

CUSTOMIZED CONFESSION

“Anytime you say you’re coming over, I get very excited, eager for night to fall so you’d sneak in like you always do. It affects my concentration actually, because I end up fantasizing all through the day. Yes, that is why I always try something new when you come. Take the other night for instance. My hair in your fisted hand and my hands splayed on the tiled bathroom wall was a scene I had already pictured. Even the words you used, the names you called me…they had all been in my daydreams. 

Now about my husband, of course I’ve been lying to him just as he does to me. He came back from his yet again, month-long business trek last night, and I could smell her right from the shirt he wore, to the inside of his luggage. You know what that means right? Yes, he went with her, and the skinny female canine, bathed in that vanilla laced perfume of hers,  left that smell all over my life. If you pay close attention, you can even smell it in his car. I was angry! I still am. 

So, do not wear any cologne when you come again, my lover. I like the smell of man. I miss the smell of man. All I smell now is a very mild vanilla. Last night, we fucked silently, my husband and I. When you come…we’d talk dirty; plenty of dirty.

I came to tell you he will leave before the weekend. So Friday night is already pulsing as it awaits us. Can we do it under the open sky this time, on the roof? I hope it rains. I have always wanted to do it in the light rain. Bring some of that wine along. I still say it tastes different outside of these walls. It tastes better. 

I promise to be here early Sunday morning. I’d sit in the back and watch you pace in that pure robe, if you promise to stay till Saturday morning. For once, my night friend, stay till morning.

I’ve thought of murder countless times. Once, you were the victim. Don’t ever stop visiting. Anything can happen if you stop. It’s not a threat, more of a subtle warning. 

Don’t stop.

I have to go now. It was nice hearing you breathe. See you on Friday. 

And oh, have I told you I love you in that hooded sweatshirt you come in? I do. I do.

Ok, bye.”

 The white-washed cathedral stood on the hill, with the sun setting behind it. She slipped out of the wooden confession box, with the rosary still in her hand, made her way down the aisle and out into the dying sunlight.