Vanilla Bean.

Maybe if the pages had post-parallel lines it would fit more symmetrically inside my conscious. Just like an actual confessionary that scares the truth from its source, I could speak lines through the grate to jealous ears just beyond our separation. Yet this will have to serve its purpose like all the precedents prior. Maybe I could slip it under the door when I know no one is at home. Then I wouldn't have to feel ashamed; I wouldn't have to beg forgiveness for wanting you like I do. All I ever wanted was to feel like this was right, finally in my destined state. With every choked-up confession I sulk a little further because I know I'm not allowed to leave this place smiling. Make me over into someone new; all I ever wanted was you to hold onto. And I could recite this over and over. I could smash out the window with these fragile fists just to prove how serious I can be. I am too tired when I get home and I hate crying myself to sleep just because no one is there to listen. I am too damn tired when I wake up that no earthly amount of holy water can bring optical swelling down. I go again; I leave again, on behalf of expected company. At least he looks forward to hearing another vicariously lived-through sin. The time has come to claim a fortune mine but my era has expired. Maybe if the pages wore invisable ink I would feel safer just knowing that my thoughts were hidden. Yet I write too fast and speak too freely, now lacking a wall to curl-up behind. Maybe I could smile as I reach in to remove his collar, and tell him that the water won't ever stop his swelling. Then I could leave with the door open and his mind refreshed and dance all the way around back to his doorstep. It's a path I've never taken but wanted to so many times. With three pages in my pocket I wouldn't choose to feel ashamed; I wouldn't choose to apologize for wanting you like I do. I would enter without a moments hesitation; Maybe you'd listen as I cry and say something that you mean.