Therapist This

My guilt don’t pause lathes in the lionhead handbag factory…
Don’t stop no shovels at the virgin boy refinery, actually
This guilt is pure
Like biting gold coins at the company store
But not too lightly
This gruesome toothy guilt of mine is mighty
This guilt of mine would have arrows in my eyes…
This guilt of mine can’t turn abortions into wine
Fires had its way with all my building
It’s an every kind of goodbooks angels absence guilting
No, this guilt of mine
Is no years old
And young like before you decompose
This guilt is marked with red
A stairway to where it hurts
A fearsome church built from black
Stone and the body of hopeless bricks…
And this guilt thicks
Gagging whole sewer pipes
When its heaviness drips…
But it’s hard waters don’t put out shit