Confession Booth: 6. A Litany of Hunger

The confessional smelled of old wood, candle wax, and something else—something heavier, muskier. The scent clung to the velvet curtain, to the splintered lattice between us, to the very air I drew into my lungs as though it were a sacrament. My knees had already grown accustomed to the hard wood, the ache in them a steady throb that only sharpened everything else inside me.

I could hear him breathe. A steady pull of air through his nose, a faint exhale that raked against my skin.

“Speak,” he commanded softly. His voice was lower now, not the crisp tone of a priest offering penance but something darker—something that knew what it was to hunger.

I licked my lips, trembling, my voice a whisper. “Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned. And sinned. And sinned again.”

The words spilled out like a chant, like a prayer, like I couldn’t stop myself.

“I have touched myself thinking of you.”

“I have moaned your name in the silence of my room.”

“I have w