i'll never be a poet

tics

guilt billows in like a smoke machine
blankets my bedroom floor in crimson cloud
snakes up the posts in smokey cotton tendrils

guilt has a grip on my shoulders
kneads its knurled knuckles into my neck
palm-paints my bare back in scarlet stain

guilt slings a shrug knit of whispers round my chest
weighs the air in my lungs down to my stomach
calls me a serpentine sinner, salvation-cheater.

guilt sinks needle-teeth into my skin
plucks nerves, plays convulsions.
i shake and shudder off the itching
but guilt has claws and roosts as a nighthawk
on the boughs of this twisted body
almost forever.

- Father, forgive me, for i know not what i am doing