A white-hot rod of shame burns into my chest- I can feel it now, the charring of skin, the cracking of ribs. I smell the smoke before I can see it. I feel the rod before I can break it.
"No, that's not quite right...."
I know. I know it isn't. I knew it as I said it, it's not right. God, I ******* know. I thought it was wrong, I was going to say something else-
And there's the stench of burning. There is the familiar rib-crack. There will be a scar there by morning.