I am aware of clouds of envy in my heart,
some cesspool of pain,
blood clots of the memories
I have of what was done to me.
I am perfumed of malice,
and I struggle just to shake off
this great weight of hatred
on my body,
in my bones—though
not my Soul: my Spirit
is the only thing sanctified
from all of this clutter, all this
material of lesser things, this quiet
indignation twisted, warped.
It is not my place to say
who is at fault, is it?
And if I could only
forgive myself, perhaps
I could forgive the rest too.
08/07/2016
Westville, Durban