Guilt is fear of eye contact that spells out its name in the knots of your forehead as it calls me a fool in a thousand ways. Because as you wound yourself around me you made me jagged and insane: an open can of worms, with none as spineless as you.
This winter creep’s been cruel like limits that I stuck to, and when you pushed them you shoved me, and my instability you proved: because bourbon’s burn fails to drown everything I can’t forget. It leaves me broke and leaves you beautiful in my head.