Poetry: What Does Guilt Feel Like?

A palpable feeling when guilt fleets in. Scared and crazed, I slam that iron-clad door closed, always under lock and key, until it is forced open by the breeze of forgotten memories. Even closed, its dark tendrils flare from the cracks beneath; they whisper, they curl, they make my skin crawl beneath its filthy, lingering fingers. Its essence—a torment, its presence—condemning, but the void of it—unthinkable, reproachable, to the masses the definition of it—evil. To flee from it is to be disowned from consciousness itself, never to be invited back in. So I hold it close but tuck it beneath that iron-clad door, my eyes forever burning from seeing its anguished face. But even with my best efforts, somehow, my eyes still trace its pained characteristics in familiar eyes. An unrelenting glare holds me, demanding to be heard, that retribution be had. A constant distress to be forced to look away, to hide the remorse that emanates from within. Culpable and ashamed I am of your pain. Unyielding and willing I am to rot in silence rather than confess. Strings of prayers now form a mere ointment to my burning burden, sending pleas that the weight of inaction dissipates in the wind. For far too long have I held it at bay, knowing full well there are only two ways it ends. For at some point my lips will crack open and make a demand that the imbalance be restored, a crazed woman demanding to be hanged with the invisible sins that are strung about in her mind, or I’ll slip into a walking tomb, with vacant eyes that no longer see the things my hands and mind have done, a mind altogether seared by the silence I’ve kept within. For guilt is merely the messenger of justice calling, and she rarely ever goes unanswered. She demands payment be made, whether that is the truth or my soul, it makes no difference for she will collect in due time.