Bathroom Stall Confessions

I think I like girls...

It was scribbled on the bathroom stall

quickly, deliberately, fearfully

aware of every high heeled footstep

coming and going on the other side of the door.

I want to reply to her confession

but I have no pen with which to write

so I gently kiss her words with

compassion and assurance

and hope she feels it on her fingertips.

Who is it that has told this confession's

hesitant hand that a higher power

might disapprove of that kind of love?

Whose reproach caused the waver of the lines

that were scrawled out in a single moment

of clarity and openness, defiance and truth?

Whose heart is it that sincerely believed

life would be better if the fingers would never

clasp the pen, if the wrist would never curl the "g",

if the words would never find a voice?

I thank God the words finally did,

in the color of blue on a wooden stall door,

and I ask forgiveness for the soul that caused

her hand to shake as she wrote her truth,

and I pray that someday her ellipsis

will turn into an exclamation! and that

her voice might someday not only be spoken

through a shaking hand,

but through a loud shout,

a proud heart,

and a kiss of love on some girl's lips.