Regret is an act of assessment:

Probe the depth of the sin,

Measure it,

Weigh it against all other transgressions,

To conclude you are undeserving

Of even your own sympathy.

When everything ends,

because everything ends,

will there be a black vortex,

thrashing towards all of us,

and storms of fire

swallowing and scorching us? 

When dust we become

will I remember this?

A stick figure contemplating the galaxy...

When everything ends,

because everything ends,

and I lay beside your coffin,

I hope I still remember

what your eyes looked like open

and how your pale corpse

does no justice to your summertime glow.

When everything ends,

and everything will end,

I hope I meet you again. 

explosive right

limp left

hobbling, sprinting, stopping

ripped forehands

pushed backhands

afraid of bending, afraid to not

struck well

sprayed wide

overthought, under-prepared

attempting to shuffle

struggling to move

reaching, groaning, aching

wanting to stop

refusing to quit

pushing, fighting, striving

is it over?

it never ends

exciting return, frustrating return

Black roses scattered on ground

devil’s gift reeking rotten scent

gravel digs deeply into my chin.

Mind chaos – am I still here?

ping pong ball pain

side to side inside skull

dark pain of crashing brain

no stop signals in sight.

Light pole arcs jangling light

boring swords into eyeballs.

I see with veil obscuring

rose’s deep crimson blood,

coating psyche in red slashes.

Knife lies sanguine across alley

Devil’s body, outstretched arms

coal black with stabs of red

I lift my throbbing head

searching for facial features

Is this what the devil looks like?

Yes, it is Satan incarnate

life blood pooling around him.

Lightning bolt stabs my memory

carmine flashes awakening senses

I realize it’s tainted ex-husband –

Chewed me up in little crust pieces,

now I have ripped a chunk out of him.

I feel no guilt as I stagger away

free of the scourge of my past, but

I can’t scrub the blood off my hands.

In the brightly lit cubicle a short, pudgy man who is balding sighs, tapping the end of his pen against the desk. Tap tap tap. The woman on the other end is hysterical, she has been sending in the payments to the business he works for. She does not know how or why the payments are not reaching them, the bank takes it out of her account automatically. 

"Ma'am, please calm down-yes, I know. I will try my best to help you find your missing money," he sounds sincere as he smiles to the faded reflection of himself in the computer screen. 

Little does she know, little does the company know, that he has been intercepting payments from several customers for his own personal gain. He had learned to cheat the system and was using it to his full advantage. He assured the woman in his soft tone that the money would be found, he also advised that she not stop the payments. 

The haze seeped in at the corners of his vision.

The stillness, the darkness-- oh, why couldn't he have it all?

If it consumed him, there would be no room for self-reproach!

He wanted it so, that black quiet.

He wanted the end as he had wanted the beginning.

If he got it all, would the gnawing, searing need that lived just behind his eyes finally simmer to a dull pain rather than a constant burning?

He had always wanted and always taken:

The bright gold, the glaring scars, the loud women, the sharp dagger, the unending pastures, the sweet sugars, the screaming grief, the jovial friends, the deep chasms, the warm bread, the crying pain, the large rooms, the aged wine, the unnerving terror, the strong horse, the soft bed, the awful nightmares...

He wanted it all.

No wonder they always looked on me with disdain, he thought, they were always envious. They were full of greed for what's mine!

What I've been given, what I've taken, what I've needed-- my life's work.

They were the greedy ones, isn't it true?

He needed the end now more than he'd ever needed anything else.

The quiet just might bring answers to such questions.

He told me he would give me everything he had, in that way that would have made me believe him if he said he would pull the sun from the sky to make me a ring. He didn't, not in the way that really mattered. I asked for money and he gave me his money, enough to fulfill every wish I never made. I yearned for his words and he poured them out for me, but they were sand to my thirst. I pulled from him every one of his secrets, picked his past clean and spread out every piece, like a specimen under glass. He gave them up with a tight smile, always so eager to please. I wanted his eyes, I wanted his smile, I wanted his mind, and all he gave me was fading memories and echoes of loves I'd had before.

I still forgave him. I forgave how he betrayed me, forgave his hoarding of the little I asked for and how he tried to distract me with a thousand gifts and moments that couldn't hope to satisfy me.

I even forgave the look in his eyes when I finally took what I wanted. 

I know

it is right

to be selfless. 

The hero

in the story,

soldier who takes the 

bullet 

that might have killed her.

It's common knowledge.

But knowledge 

never draws first

in a duel with instinct.