Awakening to count sheep
in my pajamas,
unable to replace
bad deeds with good,
I lie to you.
Number three and a handshake,
told in shadows and tones.
Guilt holds me under
‘til my body rises,
pain deep in the center
like a rock.
He takes her
to the hilltop
in chains,
but she won’t listen.
She’s a brick,
all softness gone.
Thin lines,
not always drugs,
prove still addictive
and, having a long time fear of water,
drown me in my own guilt,
calling from the darkness
as I sink below.
I love the image of Buffy drowning in guilt!