A residue of resentment lies thick
On my ashamed tongue.
Tasting my own medicine, as it were,
And wishing it tasted sweeter...

And for all my fruitless self-analysis,
It all comes down to that simple hope:
The desperate human urge,
To erase all said; all wrongs committed.

It plants in me the most bitter of thoughts:
Could've, would've, should've.

Six syllables pounding, to
The merciless beat of a drum;
The tune to which only I can hear.

I dance to it like the broken puppet,
That I wish you would reduce me to.

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