Regrets pierce, nerves scream their needles poke voodoo-like. The muscle pumps erratic, shattered, numbed. Defibrillate again to feel one excruciating wish.
Leakage from unhealed rips. Shock and awe overcome. Instant replay replays again. The prognosis? I don’t accept it. He-said, she-said guide the insane scalpel.
Drained, I sink. Mortal, I die. Futile efforts to pay for a murky past. Stuck in looping pain, being killed inches each day by this butcher. Sliced and diced by the what-ifs, wishing things remained as they once were. What if I could go back and fix them? Would I? Deceive me, please! Convince the impossible is plausible. I want… No, I don’t…
Closet-skeletons beg me to walk them back. Their carmine smeared door, a Pandora’s box, where the hacking continues in the slaughterhouse of my coddled self-pity. It’s a vicious cycle,
this vice of guilt.