Guilty

Guilt swallows me. Why did I do that? I wish I could try again. 

It eats at my soul, nibbling slowly, painfully. Never a satisfying bite, but always a slow chipping—something that can be felt like a million papercuts.

I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it. The words sink deep into my pit. They live there without fresh air. Dying.

I’ve often wondered about others’ guilt. Did they feel bad they did that to me? I wonder if they care? Does that keep them up at night?

I’ll never know.

But when I taste my own, the bitterness stuns me. It’s something to be spat out and not swished around to consider.

Get it away. Guilt is gross. Filthy. I don’t want it.

So what do I do with it? I ignore it. I let it fall in my tears.

Then maybe, maybe I could speak it and ask for forgiveness. Could I? That might make it more real, and right now it still feels a bit like a nightmare.

Why nudge it to wake it up. 

I lived with guilt for years. I’m not even quite sure why. Who said something was my fault? No one, really. But I almost wish they would’ve. The verbal punishment may have eased the pain.

God…can you remove guilt? I wonder. I hope. I’m waiting.