You are the scab I pick over and over,
The whip I use to beat myself.
Your spectre hangs on the back of the bathroom door.
 I stare at it day after day as I sit on the toilet and tell it,
"Things would have been different if I had known.
I still love you.  I'm sorry."

I want to write graffiti in your memory,
Buy an ad in the classifieds to tell you.
Anything to absolve myself of the inky guilt
Of still giving a shit.