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The luxury of guilt


Guilt is like scratching
The scabs that have settled to heal
The oozing blood comforts.
It’s really just pretending
That the numbness you feel
Has not forgotten the hurt.

It’s like banging your head
To say hello to pain
With the secret consolation
Of knowing to anaesthise your dread
With the inured bane
Of routine and repetition.

 
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Posted by on November 18, 2015 in Poetry

 

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