Guilt.

Guilt

This ache inside,
this dull, relentless ache.
It seeps through me,
slowly at first
like the gentle ebb
of an outward creeping tide.

The water quietly washes around me
whispering calm melodies
soothing as the pale luminescence
of the quarter moon bathes me
in its eerie autumn glow.

The waters of guilt start building,
stealthily binding my ankles, shins, and knees,
not revealing its true strength
as it threatens to uproot my
already shaky stance.

Like a caress,
the undertow coaxes me forward.
One step.
Two steps, and
the sand between my toes quivers,
falling away,
and I know it’s too late.

Ominous waves of guilt
thrash the shoreline,
and when they fall back,
I am overcome by their
undiluted fury.

Fearful,
I gasp before I’m dragged below
the surface.

Gripping, constraining,
battering.

Blindly,
I flail through my horrendous
water prison.

Darkness, consuming,
breathless.

Manic,
I claw at the uneven
ocean floor.

Desperation, suffocating,
silent screaming.

I’m alone.
I’m lost.
I’m regretting.

Like the ferocity of a storm at sea,
the intensity ensnares me,
the monstrosity consumes me,
and before the guilt drowns me,

there is no euphoric rush,
no light at the end, and
no end to my pain
as I fade away.

S. L. WYLLIE

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