It would be bravado if I were brave:
Forcing a good humoured smile
Onto my lips while my heart
Screams on the rack of guilt.

Perhaps some words are made
Of different sound. How else could
Their echo continue to be heard
Hours, days, even years after
They were spoken?

Sometimes, I should have known better;
Others I did but carried on regardless;
Others still I could not. Regardless of
Provenance, all are sharpened
Into blades by a cruel memory with
A vendetta against my heart.

It is hard to learn from
Weaponised mistakes; to separate
Fact from fantasy, and see
Which pitfalls to avoid.

It is not her fault; she does not
Make me feel this way;
She cannot know how her words
Will be heard once they reach me.
I want to make her understand,
But that would solve nothing.

Instead, I am doomed to be
Slowly crushed under the weight
Of regrets that I cannot seem
To stop collecting.

05/10/2018

Posted on 05/15/2018
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