It devours the mind like a savage shark ripping to shreds all
tiny hopes that coincide with life.
It colors paintings with obscure references to scriptures
that five-year olds' read.
It punches and burns wounds breached by tireless efforts
wasting away in the corners of adolescent
charades.
It’s never occurring twice in a row since it knows that
effect will wear thin like paint
that chips after specks of
hail punctures it.
It’s always there,
a birth mark,
but in the right light,
it doesn’t resemble
shame.
