I am always on trial for something;
always finding my brain cuffing me
behind bars made of my own skin.
And so we’re here again like clockwork.
I am the gavel beating against the walls
of my head.
I am the guards holding me in contempt.
I am the argument made against myself.
Every day, I am my own judge and jury.
I am the sharp, unforgiving blade of the
guillotine.
I am the crowd outside and their guilty!
guilty!
I ache because I cannot shake this feeling.
I cannot rub it off my skin.
I am most guilty because I cannot forget,
I cannot forget how beautiful you look
when you’re
breaking.
– Disclaimer: The title of this poem is a line from Traci Brimhall’s piece “Requiem for the Firstborn”.
Solecisms 