It all pours overhead,
a crashing wave of guilt and hungering lust.

Innards feel like fingers pruning,
sitting at the bottom of the shower for too long,
plugging the drain, watching the water pool.

Rose colored glasses, those aren’t for you.
Cerilian blue sadness, how I weep in mine.

Grab hold of yourself,
see what they’ve all seen so clearly.

What they’ve all said before,
does feeling have a memory?

Does that feeling ever like to sneak up on memory
and hold it by the neck
with a knife
and a threat.

Puncture it,
fill it up with blood.

Latching onto it’s victim,
creating crimes of agonizing nostalgia.

The kind that wakes you up at night
but then turns on you,
keeps you pressing the snooze button,
the same things you want to forget, you want to remember-
your thoughts,
a cruel crime of forever.