Guilty
I don’t come very often anymore
to the edge of this rancid waste dump
to pick at the scars
and bleed anew . . .
To stand and welcome it all
in its abscessed pustule
as plump as summer milkweed
ready to be lanced.
I hold the images in my heart
and await the rolling thunder
to bring blessed relief
with loosed blood and infection.
My penance.
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