There is not a person in this world
who would know, by looking at your outsides,
your insides are convulsing with self-hate.
Each guilty thought a sledgehammer
breaking down the support beams
of your brain—you don’t know
what to think of yourself anymore.
You know with every reflection you cringe,
as if that which stares back disgusts you more
than the maggots nesting in her rotten flesh.
You know no matter how many times you shove it down
nothing will make you forget the memory of her face.
You know you are going to lie awake tonight listening
to the ghost of her condemn you for the blood on your hands,
and you know nothing scares you more
than the thought of when you finally accept
it was all your fault.