It's late.

There's a makeshift foam staircase bolted along the side of my bed these days.

Two frail limbs make their way up.

I can hear the feeble thuds and the elaborate scuffle.

Something pierces through, pulls out the old familiar ache in my chest and wrings it repeatedly.

Shame. Guilt. Regret.
Shame. Guilt. Regret.
Shame. Guilt. Regret.

I lie there soaked in the broth of my rich denial.
Repulsed by the stench of my haste emotions.

I can hear them again,
They quietly snuggle themselves into the arch of my back and I fall back to sleep.