The Devil’s Coat

It’s easier to hate you for something you didn’t do than to hate myself for something that I’ve already done.
Maybe that’s selfish, even childish. Maybe my soul is as black as the devil’s coat, maybe my priorities have been mixed up and shattered. I hate having to paint the darkest things gold, knowing that underneath, the truth is reeking, seeping into everything. My heart is plastered to my ribcage, my soul has fled in disgust, my eyes might even emanate anguish. The guilt never smooths away, or breaks away, or melts away, or burns away. It sits like an impenetrable evil in my brain and I can’t shake it. It’s like eternal blurry vision and unsteady hands. I can’t turn away from the truth, I have to face it, but not with you. You’re an easy person to talk to, but not about things that matter. I feel guilty for even bringing up guilt, and a strong sigh that slips from you deters any soul’s release. You’re not to blame, because maybe it’s just me. On the contrary, dearest, it is my fault. And there’s nothing I can ever do to change it. There’s nothing I can do to erase it. But I can’t paint it gold and pray it goes away. It lurks. It waits. It never leaves. Don’t you see?
Suddenly I know why the marks are all there. Guilt. The guilt I can never shake. And the overconfidence that will never quite break.
Truly,
Amanda.