I recognize the shape of it, having balanced
its shifting weight for as long as forever
still, I don’t always see it coming
even when the shadows fall
over the vivid bright of summer, darkening
the colors, stretching itself
until
all that’s left is distortion
and this ruins the fun, you see,
it unravels all the good intentions
But, also, guilt can feel empty, a void
blossoming up around me
like some scentless, colorless flower
siphoning my joy because the weight of it
never changes or the cold, flat truth
like dull iron, nonreflective
I smell the metal
it has the faintest taste of blood
coppery with rust
blackened around the edges
oxidized yellow, festering
the wound is septic
the rot’s a living thing