Heart

 I can count five times throughout my development that a swift punch in the mouth to my oppressors would have ended the torment forced upon me. Taking the path my single mother laid crumbs to follow, I have found that by withholding my clenched white knuckles, my mind rests at ease with the need for redemption from physical acts. The one area that has plagued my splintered consciousness (ironically) rests within the once fractured hearts of women.

 During moments that strike at me out of a blue sky, I am filled with remorse for the abandonment my words have caused, and for the separation of many once singular twin heartbeats. Over the years many contacts have been made acknowledging my wrongdoing, and I was met with a fucked up form of understanding. I never thought of myself as a heartbreaker, but it's weird the ways we can surprise ourselves.

 I will always remember the small forms of kindness that others have shed for me. I'm to old to hold a grudge, and am glad that I have never spilled another's blood. I'm still alive, I just hope that karma is finally done with me.