Broken pottery vase from the mantle. Baseball whizzing through windowpane. Broken glass, future cuts lay in accidental mosaic fashion on the hardwood floor, freshly waxed, now no more. The shell of my soul eats away from the inside out. As if my skin were just enamel. It is consuming me now. The guilt. Choking me up, making it difficult to breathe. I can’t stand it. I can’t live like this. I cannot lie about it. The guilt will ruin me, will ruin everyone the longer I refuse to express it, the longer I insist on keeping it secret, the longer I ignore it, or try to anyway. I must share the guilt. And speak it out. Trust in family or friend to ease my burden and I don’t care if some troll says it’s selfish of me to do so. I am not made for Mafia skin. My soul wasn’t built to harbor terror or secrets. The joy of Life is living openly and honestly as possible, so I can be confident at all times that I am myself, or trying to get there anyway. Brush of the dust and shake of the skin of what does not serve you and go on dancing through Life’s rhythms with skirts and masks and libations. And also rest, and dream of these things. We can live in the profound together. But this guilt.