Racked. (And back, sort of.)

Often, every little thing makes up a guilt trip. The unintentional seems to border on intentional, with or without meaning to. It picks at me, pokes me on the ribs, the head, rather, over and over until my motives mix with the unidentifiable. As if the guilt while at it isn’t enough, a bitter aftertaste of the feeling remains to trouble me further. What’s more often, is that it takes a while, a long while, to get over it.


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