My thoughts are frantic
Over acts I committed,
small things,
tiny,
Are they even strange
in the eyes of the receiver?
Or am I imagining my fault
In something with
wide-eyes,
and genuine curiosity?
My mouth betrays me.
I convince myself daily.
But is it merely my rumination,
The after effects
of insecurity and faulty reason,
That make me strangle myself
With doubt and worry?