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.