Bat

Guilt is not salt in the wound. It is an irritant. Like a wasp circling, or the itch of moisture-slick skin beneath a cast.

I believe you wish me to hurt, but I am sorry to report my wounds inflicted by your voice, usually like beautiful carved crystal and sharp as cut glass now have healed twice over.

You cannot forgive a person half-way. You cannot say it's all okay, but wait with bated breath and a bat in hand, grimacing all the while.

I have hit you with that bat, and beaten myself to a pulp as the result too many times now. I have carried a heavy heart, thickened by your memory.

But I have forgiven me. God knows you will never admit I am not the monster lurking in every shadow.

So, while I ache with the vitriol you have coated me in with a heavy tongue, and though I duly note your hatred and pain and, yes, I am sure you will not be done until I am skinned-- I do not feel guilt. Why should I? At some point, you will realize one swing was enough to kill me. The hundred others were for fun.

Who is the monster now?