Bharti Kher—Confess (2010)

[if you marry your confession, you can live alone inside it. no priest behind the window. no wife or husband. the walls glitter with eyes and all of them are yours, a palimpsest of witness. how many does it take to see this through? the hardest confession i ever made was i don’t love you. i have confessed inside a car, velour under my thighs, windows up. i have confessed in a polished oak alcove. i’ve confessed on a couch ten minutes before slamming the door. once i confessed in a red vinyl booth, the paper napkin in my lap stained with vinegar. in bed. in arms. in handcuffs. it’s the state of being enclosed that compels you: like womb, like ring, like mausoleum. here to stay is a threat in one box, in another a promise. the lighting’s the same: from the ceiling, the future hangs to interrogate you. every confession unties a lie and says, begin. listen: the hardest confession i never made was i love you, and this is the one i live in. no wife or husband. to marry your confession, you don’t have to love it, but you’ll learn to.]