Bad Blood

Venting is fun, venting is fun.

So here's how it begins.
Those thoughts
Snaking in,
My brain rots
With sin:
Imagined or otherwise.

And just as that snake
Whispers temptation,
So does mine wake
And here the ache
Gouges at badly-scabbed wounds.

But bad blood dries and I
Buried all my skeletons.
I cremated them, so why
Don't their deaths feel genuine?
Because I wish someone would pry,
Dig them up; a perverse treasure hunt.

Yet I'm left to walk
On eggshells around omelettes
(What's that phrase?). I squawk
Apologies and guised threats:
And stand back as you take stock;
I'm sorry for my failings.

Though it's no fault of mine;
My fears are once again confined.

The End

19 comments about this poem Feed