No surprise - the sun has risen
yet again, and at just the right angle
to upset my fidgeting non-sleep,
a brazen intruder in my room
who sets my splintered nerves alight.
What do I regret most? (Nothing,
none of this was really your fault.)
Your comforting words are an insult.
What do I regret most? (That you
were weak enough for second chances.)
The wise among us say it is possible
to find mastery in your own undoing,
to process the crumbling. But all I feel
is a spiteful itch - it has drilled inside,
beyond the most intrepid scratching.
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