If hope is the thing with feathers, guilt is the thing with teeth,
It nibbles and gnaws at the edge of your mind and your gut,
It pulls your knuckles to your cheek and stains it in purple and grey,
It draws you in and make you walk around in circles in your kitchen wearing sneakers you don't need to wear yet,
It sits you down by the cold, dark door and makes you listen to the conversation your mother is having in the other room over dinner,
It rolls back the cassette again and again and again and again until your brain can't stop pacing around the what-ifs and should-haves,
It sticks a finger down your throat to see if there's any sin left in your gut that you can potentially purge to make yourself cleaner,
It tells you you will see your brother again tomorrow and he will hate you and you will deserve it,
It makes you write poems and elegies he will never read,
So many lines,
So many ways to say I'm sorry
And none of them are
Enough.