I forget my reasons
for staying, saying
instead it’s what’s right–

wrong, again.

Again, I swallow it all:
the anger, the regret.

But it won’t stay down,
as I do. It rises,
likes the hot air you speak,
corrodes the ceiling,
takes my breath, leaves
me gasping, choking
on what you could not

The indignant,

after all, have no room
for their own mistakes.

Originally published at Melancholy Hyperbole, found here.


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