I want you to hold me. I have never asked this of you before, father analyst. I want you to hold me, tightly. Tell me, perhaps, as you embrace your arms across my chest, my middle age sunken ribs, that you love me. No. Wait. I don’t need your love. I need your pity, your sympathy, your contempt. Tell me that I am not the worthless piece of …. Hold me. Dr. Fucklove does not understand this week’s irrationality. I have ranted before. I have told him that I hate being a gay man in a non-gay world. I have told him that my parents beat me to a pulp when they confirmed I was gay. I was twelve. Sins have no age of innocence. But this …. This I have not told him, not in any of my confessions. Hold me. Love me. Pity me.
He will not hold me, of course. His Freudian training and Irish-Catholic prejudices prevent him from any sincere empathy, any true understanding of the human being; any true empathy for a soul in pain, a soul that does not give a rat’s ass about your Jewish-Catholic-Christian –God-Damn condemnations, abominations, prejudices and judgments. I want understanding. I want forgiveness. Above all, Holly Pope Francis -- the man that baptized me, the man that blessed me with unholy first communion, the man that now leads the holy fucking Catholic Church -- forgive me .. for I have sinned.
The confession will follow.
