I was gifted this image with the prompt of “conscience” — something I have been struggling with internally for a long while. These words poured from me – no sieve to catch the granules of ridicule and no salve to soothe the burn of truth.
Split into. What the Devil do I do? Never the saint, always the sinner but redemption never matters. The light splinters my darkness into more dangerous and ragged fragments. I choose not the path of least resistance as that keeps me from consummating with my depraved shadow. The voices I give names and develop plots to keep me entertained. But I deny myself a conclusion as that would force a hand that I hold in illusion. The guilt seeps into the ink but dries faster than the masterful kiss of a forbidden lover. If only I believed in the power of confession … yet, I must because I am on my knees before you begging to be punished for crimes I have committed in poetic verse. I pluck off the cries of the wounded like pieces of lint and flick them into the aftermath of a paradise in which I am deluded. Split into. What in God’s name do I do?