Sunday Confessional

Father, I must confess, I know a man.

A very troubled man.

A man who is need of your prayers.

He is merciless like the devil,

An insomniac’s restless night,

He murdered a small girl before her mother’s very eyes.

Father, I must confess, this man is an addict.

A man who pops pills in the morning,

Snorts cocaine in the afternoon,

Drinks in the evenings,

And remembers each day as a black void.

Father, I must confess, this man is dangerous,

I’ve seen his gun.

He keeps a silver revolver in the top drawer of his nightstand.

Every night before he cries himself to sleep.

He stares at a photo of the daughter and wife he once had.

He says his wife left him when his daughter died.

Shot in front of his wife’s very eyes.

He holds the gun he is so much alike to his temple,

He squeezes hard.

Every. Single. Night.

And when nothing happens he drowns himself in tears.

Father, I must confess, this man is a puppet.

A slave to his conscious.

He is pure evil.

Father, I must confess, I know a man.

And that man is I.

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