June 25, 2002

confession time

Tell the truth, the whole truth
as long as it shames and blames.

Close your eyes, bow your head
take a knife, plunge it deep
into your small tender chest
rip skin and muscle, split bone
stop your racing heart,
because guilt hurts
worse than this.

I don't know what you're talking about.

Wrap your own cold corpse
white lace neatly arranged
over pale blue skin,
you are my prize
for the world to see.

The bloody masacre
before your eyes
is broken children
breaking children.

Mea culpa, mother?

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