The horror on my face
when I saw your furrowed brows,
concentrated on the object in hand.
The object I gave to you,
knowing you would take care of it.

You look up to me sheepishly,
the look of guilt on your face.
That guilt transferred over to me,
but its power multiplied and strengthened,
into a scribble of black in my chest,
tangled and knotted together
making it harder for me to breathe.

I walked over to you,
hoping that this isn't true
as the knots of black thread began to tangle more,
into a huge knotted ball.

I took what I gave to you,
willing my shaky hands to mend it,
but no use...
The tangle of thread rises,
creeping its way up my throat
to behind my eyes, begging to be released,
to flow down my cheek.
But I resisted, for if I let it loose
then what...?

Yet the ball of thread grows,
somehow producing thorns.
Thorns that pierce my skin,
almost proding from the inside out.

For the object I gave you
was never mine to begin with.
Like you, I was entrusted with it.
Now we both face the same consequences,
of shame,
of guilt,
and the trust we gained
                                               b
                                                      r
       ­                                                      o
        ­                                                       ­       k
                                                        ­      ­                e
                                         ­                                             n  
Now I lie here,
heart trembling,
hand shaking,
beads of sweet falling down my head.
Waiting
for the punishment that I'll receive.

A punishment for something out of my control,
out of yours too.
But I know it's not your fault.

A punishment out of our control.
A punishment out of our control.
A punishment out of our control.