Darkest Regrets
I walked the streets,
cold and alone
As one does, with no
hope or friends or money
I walked the streets,
almost, to abase myself
To the darkest fears and
the darkest regrets
Of never having
loved
myself
In a gilded language
I tore myself to bits
I stepped of the street
Into a house in Carlton
that’s lino loved no-one
I tried to sooth myself
from shy tears
I believed in love, and
in loving myself
Yet in a gilded
ignorance
I was trapped in
self-loathing’s black mirror
Caught in a mesmerizing
life
of traffic and Turkish
coffee readings with poached eggs at 3 in the afternoon
Yet when I found no relief in my
imagination
No reprieve in talking
books accompanied with sewing patchwork
or in student-ish poetry
I found solace in others
words
The Tibetan Book of the
Living and Dying
Concepts that become just
simple words
telling me what ‘they’
thought
What other people felt
How life could be bland,
could be unexpectedly disappointing
How a gilded mask could
hide the truth of life’s darkest regrets
When I said ‘no’ to you
You said ‘yes’ to her.
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