Eat the guilt
-Cover it’s taste with salt
and old dreams
Better bloody than dead,
I’ll wash my hands of it again.
Hold it at arms length,
so I don’t cover myself
with its fears
Talking always of myself
I I I
so I can only blame myself later
Holding heavy my shame
and heartbreaks
palms open
to the above-
questions endless,
and unyielding.
Three year old whys
and wants.
This is rushed and lacking,
probably like myself,
but
some wounds never heal,
scars never showing up
when they need to.