I am shameful. I have transgressed. The center of my chest itches to be scratched.
I retreat, I recede, I withdraw my wounded self into the shell from which I came.
I want to dissolve.
I want to go back in time and destroy things.
Nobody is perfect, but I am all too familiar with my own imperfection.
I am all too familiar with the colors of my imperfection.
I am all too familiar with the gritty taste of my own imperfections.