my wicked life

There is a darkness in me, born with pride and held tight in my fist, a bruise-purple marble worn smooth against the hard corners surrounding the best of my intentions. This darkness has little weight – I discarded guilt long ago, trading it in equal measures for an infamy that lives only in my heart.

I swallow it whole – no, better! I imbibe it, a salve for a self-inflicted illness, a silver cool easing of the many-mouthed wound that bleed tears of joy within my ever dissolving resolve. It is a rainstorm in miniature, trickling tiny angels into the darkness at the very bottom of me; I could weep for them, for I can hear their hymns of sorrow when I sleep at night.

Do not offer forgiveness, I deserve none. My transgressions are many, my iniquities greater still.

And my indiscretions? They can be counted in the brightly colored letters blazoned in deep red for all to read.

2 thoughts on “my wicked life”

  1. I think everyone has there share of scarlet letters… The difference is some people try and hide them, and some people revel within them.

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