She is right
I am wrong.
how to escape
the rut I’m stuck in,
how to stop being wrong,
my saying sorry will never be enough.
I am as drunk now
As I was that night in the bar
Even though I got no more
than one sip,
drunk on something I breath in
or dream up,
or fumble ove
r in this confusing life
of fog that I exist in
I can only glimpse
the fog of fear she contends with,
scared to death
after I ripped off by accident
a long-time healing scab
she gets to bleed again
from an old wound
I made more painful
her cry over the cell phone
reverberating through me
like the echo of a gunshot,
evidence of a crime I
committed
and a felony from
which
I will never be
acquitted,
destined to eternally
stand trial,
rolling the boulder
up
one side of the hill
only to have it roll down the other
start again
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