regret is a funny thing,
it enters in through the cracks in the floor,
and at your worst, mirrors in your
relationships will reflect
you, and an unrecognizable gaze
will judge your unconscious actions
—
how did we get here?
really, i could spend
the rest of my short-lived days
on this planet swimming
in regret
—
when it came first,
i let it pool up at my
ankles like a shower
with a drain clogged
—
and i’d cry over dirt,
unwilling to turn the
water off regardless
of how hard i’d scrubbed
—
and i danced and stomped
around in the flood at
my feet, letting it seep
into my skin and soak my
bones in vapid cold
—
but as i forgot how
to stand, i found a solemn
reminder in the swirls
of the despair — a twisted
reflection, distorted image,
of a happiness i had once
—
and the memory of a me,
happy, warm, amplified
the cold at my shins
and made any hope i’d
had to stand on wash down
the drain with the rest of
my life
—
so, left empty by the
oathes to myself broken
by mistakes i’d made, i
picked up the pieces of
the mirror i’d smashed with
stones and hammers, and pieced
it together, ignoring the scarlet ribbon
as it left my tender palms
—
and in the shower, then
i had pools of blood clearing
a drain that had clogged, i
was rinsed by the mead of
my grip, i was crucified
and forgiven by the mirror
that was left pieces in my
hands reminding me of what
i was not
—
happy
—
and though regret almost drowned
me once or twice, i got to
know her cold sting, and i realized
i’d preferred hot tea and a blanket, so
i’d spend the months patching
up holes in the attic floor and bathroom
tile, i’d spend the months falling
asleep at the foot of my bed, holding
a cup of tea i’d made myself, convinced
the screams from the kettle could
drown out the slow dripping
of my past down the kitchen
walls
—
and eventually, the showerhead
turned off altogether.
and sipping on chamomile,
i found one last piece of shattered
mirror, and the ghost trapped by
it’s rugged, bloody edge had nothing
to say, except he reminded me
that love’s pain is proof of
love’s truth
—
and so why regret love?
even if you weren’t the one,
you taught me something.
and i won’t thank you for it, no,
i thank me for my ability to learn,
and i thank my blood for pumping,
for keeping my toes warm in the freezing
depths of our memory
—
the regret stopped seeping in, now,
and so my bones are strengthened by
the knowledge that they have stood
while broken before.
