Guilt comes in our silences
I tell myself that I am a far flung ideal,
my thoughts love to attract anything worth regret,
no company more loved by misery
than the graveyard in which my mind sleeps.
I look in the mirror and brush my teeth,
routines somehow scratching too far under my skin.
Is this really all that there is to me?
I promise myself that an outsider’s touch is more righteous,
a more decent approach than my own uninitiated fingers
their ability only impervious in excavating guilt.
I make believe that my from own hands
blooms only promises of wraiths and perversion.
(this is how I try to keep to the vehement gospel others once gave)
tell me if you have found yourself here before:
does not wanting to conform to society
suddenly become a crown of thorns?
what is the truth then- am I, according to society,
guilty of intemperance because of my indifference?
does my self considerations and explorations
-as a woman always and forever untamed by the touch of men-
do nothing except cast me away
am I to be nothing but a chapter in an unholy book
warning against the sins of becoming
a demented and confused whore?
Dumpster Fire Press 