subtext

There is a confession

I will not confess;

this is it. I have no hands

to offer solace, or beg

forgiveness of neglect.

Between desire and denial,

self-abnegation parses

the day-to-day trespasses

into shards. With bloody fingers,

I shape my fragments into mosaics,

abstract and mono-chromatic,

until simpler to believe.

My guilt inculcates the air,

and then I drown.