Your mother giving you a set of dishes
and all you said was but I move around
so much and you can never forget
her hurt face turning away.
The best friend you accused of
flirting with your boyfriend when
all the time you knew it was him
you just couldn't face it.
The argument with your father about
not having seen his damned magazine
then finding it in your room
and never admitting it.
Telling your office mate you
agreed with her motion then
voting with the others after all.
Thousands of them, little knots
you can't shake loose from your memory.
It's too late now to say your sorry.
They contract along your nerves
to consciousness, whenever you think
you are not a bad person, there
they come, little lumps of guilt
making their daily rounds,
like doctors, keeping you sick.