Where Poems Come to Die

guilty

two days before i turned five 

my mother left me in a room with a hot iron 

and being the child that i am

i attempted to iron out the wrinkles on my palms 

because my OCD would settle for nothing less than perfection

ten years later, and my mother still won't leave the iron on 

even for just a few seconds. 

she looks at the scar on my knee

with a guilt ridden stare of disdain 

despite the fact that she couldn't keep me from falling off my bike. 

she now hates it when i wear short dresses. 

guilt does that to a person 

sinks her claws deep into the wiring of their brain 

until the signals don't add up 

and they are stuck 

with no name for the new pain 

that they never saw coming 

and we spend the rest of our lives punishing ourselves for all the things we did 

and resenting ourselves for all the things we did not 

we see not scars but sins 

in the layers of skin on a child's knee 

and when we look on the smooth skin of our daughters palm 

we see screaming red and ice buckets 

that haven't been there for years 

like the same old movie again and again 

same story with a different cast 

different time period. 

and we never even wanted to watch

but guilt convinced us otherwise 

told us to pay for our mistakes in hours of sleeplessness 

to repent by suffocating on our sins 

until we can't remember why we committed them in the first place

actions live in the moment 

guilt lives for a lifetime.