I am not sure why I did it,
Well that's what I'm going to say
Once I get caught with it.

Because we all know it'll happen.
I know why I stole the thing,
It's not very simple to explain:

The memories wouldn't stop,
I wanted some control over my life,
The urge needed to be fulfilled,

But the general, easy explanation:
I wanted to do it,
I have waited so long.

It's not like me to steal,
At least that's what they think.
I've thought about this for so long.

I contemplate doing many things:
So many horrible things,
Things I'd rather die than do.

I want to scream and cry,
Throw things, flip tables,
Show them how I really feel.

But I don't,
I keep up my reputation,
Smile through all of it.

I don't let anyone know,
If they knew half of it,
I would have no one.

The funny part about this
Is that I don't regret it at all,
I know I should.

I don't regret it,
Relief instantly washed over me,
Like the sick being I am.

A small, reluctant smile forms on your lips;
small because there are no smiles without the guilt
that comes from being the only flower in a field of weeds.

I fill the pages to cover up the guilt I feel,
I question to make me feel better,
I complain to weight my sorrow,
Do I deserve all of this?
The old broken poems regretted the hands that never held,
I live to save the name that gave me.

To bargain the loneliness ,
I sing a song of depression.
To perfect the insanity,
I labelled the smiles of grief.
But no matter, I still wrong the innocent….

You look better when I close my eyes.
Because I’m a horrible person
a horrible person who still thinks of her when I’m with you.
Yet again, when I’m with her, who I was gets lost.
because honestly, I was broken
—She broke me—
I am broken, but you’ve seen me as whole.

She took the blame and

between them arose a wall --


of elusive darkness.

Thinking ahead
to those moments
generates anxiety and fear.

It feels like
I might open a box
of dire circumstances,
a basket of hassles,
for tomorrow
is so uncertain.

Similarly, the past
resembles a rug
stained with footprints
of mud, grit, and misdeeds
best described as guilt.

Self-reproach
obscures all awareness
of the present moment.

Peace exists;
it resides in my awareness
of now.

And in those moments together,
God concedes
that sadness and dark times
are assured.

These obligatory struggles,
though arduous to traverse,
are trials
that contain kernels of truth
for me to grasp

if I pay attention.

He didn’t mean to—
not really.

Just a flash of white,
a crescent moon of teeth
in soft rebellion.
My hand, the eclipse.
His eyes, twin puddles
spilled from stormclouds
he didn’t know he carried.

He backs away,
ears flattened like fallen wings,
tail tucked tight—
a question mark
curled in the dirt.

The bite stings less
than his trembling silence.

He watches me
as if I hold thunder
beneath my skin.

I crouch low.
He crawls lower,
guilt breathing louder
than either of us.

A shiver trails down
his brindle spine
like winter chasing spring.

And I—
I forgive him
before he even reaches
my outstretched palm.