Again I resolve to temper my regret,
and again the pull toward self-blame returns
to void my pledge and vex the sense that spurns
my aim for calm, that casts me back in debt
for missteps by all forgotten, beset
by cerebral flames, ornamental burns
across my heart, scars of remorse, patterns
to remind me of the self-delivered threat.

My fingers linger loath to leave unread
this bloody valentine of self-regard
and self-condemnation, but, cold, my head
resists my desperate efforts to safeguard
self against the well-spring of my dread:
I'm left again self-feathered and self-tarred.