guilt

I fucked up.

I’m f*****g sorry.

I’d rip out my spinal cord

and offer it to you whole

if it could make things better

or just take the pain from you

and hold it in myself.

 

But that can’t be done,

just as I can’t take back

my own words, but I imagine

they’d taste bitter in my mouth now,

like lemons, or a fistful of salt.

 

The first time they didn’t taste so bad.

I thought they were sharp, maybe,

a little rough on the edges, a little

soured and maybe overripe

but I said them anyway

(they didn’t seem so bad, I said)

 

But they were more than just

sharp and soured,

they were cold and bitter and

jagged, razor-like, merciless,

calculating, unforgiving, unrelenting

and they cut like knives.

 

I can’t take them back.

But if I could, I would

each one cutting deep and long,

from the ankle up the side of my leg

(like a racing stripe, a fine red line)

all the way up, marking me.

Deep cuts, too, with flashes of white

(that’s the bone)

and I’d do it in a heartbeat

but it’s too late for that.

 

All that’s left is would-have,

should-have,

shame

pain

guilt

I’m-sorry-I-did

I-wish-I-hadn’t

but nothing can be undone

Reviews

[SquinklaPsyOps]

A fascinating wisdom story Well done.