The Confession Room

Here we go again, folks. My next attempt at True Crime poetry.

“ All I heard was, “I Did It”

In the interrogation room, hush, my coffee goes cold.

Thirty years of ghosts stand shoulder-close.

A voice breaks — small — then steadies, solid and cold:

“I did it.” And the room exhales, morose to gold.

Relief is a siren you don’t want to hear.

Guilt rides shotgun — why confess today, not then?

A family holds time like a jagged souvenir.

Cold case years, filed under “when, dear God, when?”

The cuffs click shut; the truth clicks open.

Names return to faces, not to dusty files.

Justice isn’t clean — just overdue —

A bruise that finally learns to heal.

We don’t get back the dead — only the door,

unlocked at last, so grief can breathe once more.

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