Cursed: My Only Real Job

I screwed up.

Badly.

And I won’t let me live it down.

Forty years. Fifty years. One thousand years later.

The switch was flipped. The axon grew. The deal with hate struck.

I broke so many rules and enough hearts,

I let down so many, simply too lazy to keep my word,

But this self hatred I honor endlessly.

The record exists nowhere.

But the fear of letting it vanish, to let true nature…

To allow oblivion its healing strike.

Why should I fear this?

These foibles.

These impish trespasses of a damaged child,

How have they become the sonorous

Background radiation of my existence?

My very being ripples recursively

Cursively

Cursed.

No witch but my sorcerer self.

I live in my wheel of knives,

Cruelty facing inwards,

Also somehow proud.

I don’t want to be myself but I can’t get over

My overwhelming self.

After all, I can see it in the mirror, I look good in a suit.

A funhouse room of mirrors, immaculately dressed,

Each one mocking,

“You did this.”