Guilt is the thing with barbed thorns.
I long for the day when I’m past it.
When I can unhook its grip from
my hot flesh and there’s enough
blood left in me to love once again.
I carry it on me like culture or
secrets. The weight of it something
akin to skin. On my proudest mornings
I thank it. Bowing to the lessons
of my past like a temple in prayer.
Some noons I’m certain I’m beyond it,
flush with the warmth of new truths
ringing plain in my ears. But, at night,
I know it will always come clawing
from that place of same pure surrender
I once trusted to you.