Guilt works the third shift

Maybe that's why it's called bleak. Dark. Guilt hangs around for breakfast sometimes but the light of day tends to dissipate the brooding that clams the skin and worms its way into the darkest recesses of gut. A wrenching stench guilt is. It deadens the eyes from the inside. It wracks and crumples, wilts spirit. Capital G Guilt, the worst kind, births from betrayal. Are there those who have not betrayed? Someone? Themselves? I suppose there are. Not me. I've betrayed. With betrayal comes rationalization at it's most imaginative. I did it because, it wouldn't have happened were it not for, they fucking made me do it, assholes. They deserved it the stupid fucks. But those are noon musings. Rush hour ramblings. It gets dark every night and guilt is an insomniac, it doesn't sleep well, ever. It brings friends. Shame and disgust; they buddy up to guilt, slap him on the back and encourage him to get in there and crawl around, don't forget the dark corners, the places almost never visited. The corners are cold and that's where the sour sweat comes from.

Have you betrayed? Felt the slap in the face of betrayal? Sounds like Red Shoe Diaries doesn't it? I remember my first act of betrayal. I can still rationalize it, even though there is really no need to. I know what it was. I took her, by design, this freshly married nymph, wide eyed , who was just coming outside to play for the first time. Playing house. She was leaving mom just as I was putting the weapon down to grow my hair, turn the music up and learn how to roll the perfect joint . And just because we grew up in the same neighborhood doesn't mean we were really friends. I treated her better, loved her more. I did, don't look at me like that. I looked through my belongings and found some charisma that I didn't know I had. I took her slow, took her giggles, her glances, crafted her confidence with nonchalance and reserve, watched her, oh how I watched her. She laughed for me and dressed for me and then she undressed for me. She never stopped undressing for me and don't you just adore that in a woman? I felt her loving and not discouraging is encouraging isn't it? I loved back. She had not a drop of confusion; she never wavered and when I say slow I mean slow. That kind of love is good slow, that kind of want. Slow works, it can reach the same depths as the quick and the urgent, it burrows and settles in. They're sweet, those crawling steps are. I had the reins. I do reins well except when I turn them loose. It's a story of betrayal and a tale of love and lust and awakening. Its never left me, never will. It may be the book that lives inside me, there is that much material, that much of a story. I really did know how to love her and I really did treat her better and he really wasn't that good of a friend.

I'll have to write it on the first shift.