Inherited guilt-ghost.

So it’s here.

A burning scourge within through the most innocent of glances.

A disorientating fear on the edge of sleep, like a heavy weight on the mechanism of morning.

A sickness inherited.

A guilt-ghost of a broke-jekyyl but successful hyde.

Blinded to thoughts that aren’t my own – victim to a pelvis-bowl of illusions that perform like a futile test on a runaway innocent.

And despite solid-placing, true knowing and love keeping – I still wobble down the street under the weight of misplaced accusations.

Still sweat out thick his grease.

Still scratch out his presence on my skin, but in steps that feel fresh-as-my-own.

Steps that neatly erase my history.

Steps that make me him, without his shadow.

I see you.

And forgive you.



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