My tongue is scoured
with acid from venomous words
I spit at you.

But it appears,
my aim is poor,
and the majority of
the venom
sinks back into my flesh.

They weave
into my bloodstreams
in the form of guilt,
guilt,
guilt,
until you become
the only thing
clouding my mind.

I am sick
of feeling responsible
for everything
I didn't do--
ignoring the things
I did.

I am imperfect
but so is love.