Memory

A slimy, slithery snake of ill regret
slides into the head,

like a dropped glass
the illusion shatters, jagged edges
tearing confidence to tiny, tearful shreds.

Vengeful recollections flood back with melancholy
dancing in delight upon unwanted memories
of each and every stupidity, each misplaced word

like a tonne of posioned barbs made of lead,
their weight and toxicity
crush, collapsing self-respect into a ball
to be kicked about mercilessly

The sorry tale of inadequacy is primed
like a hair trigger, always sensitive
to the slightest touching on a dismal past,
bewildered by an unclear, shapeless self-given
rebuke which never tires of its own voice