I’ve got that heavy knot in my gut
telling me I fucked up, I know it,
everyone knows it, but
I don’t know what I did.
I can’t remember. All I have
is that feeling, something trying
to crawl up from my intestines
and hang from my vocal cords,
choking back a mystery apology.
You’re so good at telling me
everything I’ve done wrong.
Tell me now. Tell me
so I can go nine rounds with myself,
get my slacker ass on the ropes
and go for the KO, slam this
imperfection from my system.
Tell me so I’m not forced to
waterboard my memory
for false confessions and
agonizing half-thoughts
sputtered out between
cracked lips and
another vodka-rocks.
Shuffle my neurons and
find some plausible lie
to explain this writhing,
heavy-as-a-dying-star
sickness in my stomach.
I’m sure you’ll be right.
Filed under: poetry Tagged: bitterness, guilt, memory, sunday, told you so