Broken Trust

March 27, 2012
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Picking up the phone that day, I didn't know what lay ahead.
What I found, I wish I could return.
But I can't touch it.
I can feel it.
Deep, deep, in the pit of my stomach.
My stomach twists and turns like a long winding path leading to my death.
But I cannot die.
I must live with the pain.
Hearing you cry, the words spilling out of your mouth, replays in my brain, backfiring into my soul.
If I only I could shove those words back where they came from into your dark mouth.
Of course, that is not possible.
The words started with me, in my dark, dark mouth, and my senseless brain.
Shivering now, I try securing myself in the warmth of cotton, salt staining my cheeks, dripping onto my pillow.
What have I done?
What if I told you, I'm sorry.
And not I'm sorry I got caught, but I'm sorry I did it.
Except this time, the hurt cannot be healed by a band-aid.
No, this is an open wound.

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