Lately,
even on my worst days,
(when I’m more dumb with shame
than usual)
the days where I ponder
my right to breath and water,
for my greatest crimes of being annoying,
and not knowing better,
when I was younger,
I find that I’ve grown bored
of salt smearing my lacerations.
The familiar sting of self flagellation
no longer titillating the ruptured
part of my brain that welcomes punishment.
Perhaps, like the breaking of a mustang
becoming a broodmare,
I’ve grown too tired to struggle anymore,
or, maybe, this is forgiveness.