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?

Published by Mike Zone

Mike Zone is the former Editor in Chief of Dumpster Fire Press and managing editor of Concrete Mist Press. The author of Screaming in the End: Poems and Stories, Fuck You: A Fucking Poetry Chap, Shedding Dark Places (almost), One Hell of a Muse , as well as coauthor of The Grind and Razorville. A frequent contributor to Alien Buddha Press and Mad Swirl. His work has been featured in: A Thin Slice of Anxiety, Black Shamrock Magazine, Horror Sleaze Trash, Better Than Starbucks, Piker Press, Punk Noir Magazine, Synchronized Chaos, and Cult Culture magazine.

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