no matter how many times
I’ve gargled mouthwash
I can still taste those words on my tongue.
sorry isn’t a palette cleanser.
no, every word is soured.
no matter the sorries
I say to nothing at all
I can’t get this stain out
rubbed my skin raw
some words are spoken with a needle
tattooed forever,
only for us to see.
I see it in the mirror,
and can’t
quite
wrap
my head
around how I’m the only one who sees it there
on my forehead.
still can’t shake the feeling
they’re all looking at it.
still can’t shake the feeling
that I don a Scarlett letter–
they can hear
“guilty”
in my voice. i know it.
THE CLOSET MYSTIC 