Her guilt jumps up
in her throat like a
frog,
in a pond covered in
lily-pads,
as she scans her screen,
picks out my name,
and hits
"delete".
I know it's what she
does to keep her head
up,
in the clouds,
safe,
from her old mistakes,
her old responsibilities
and I've run out of
blame.
It's all been replaced
with a distasteful amount of pity.
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This work by Lena Rigby is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.
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