This may be a bucket of sorrow,
or sorry, that tips and spills
on the counter, on my dress.
even a diamond can't clean
the mess. maybe I feel bitter,
maybe I feel ruined. Guilt turns
on like a fire, but repentance is
the warmth winter beats away.
I'm jealous of people who keep
their hands in their pockets.
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1 comment:
for the record, my hands are almost never in my pockets--
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