My mistakes are
snapshot,
enlarged and
mood framed
with background emotions.
For present castigation
and
future past reference.
Your mistakes
slip past you in
a profound silence that
muffles
the shattering damage
they leave in their wake.
They move so fast,
I’m
left so shocked,
I
couldn’t capture them.
Why would I,
if I could?
Why would I
choose
to spend my future
staring at
snapshots of recurring
nightmares to the
background sound of
breaking heart?
So instead,
here we both stand.
In the gallery
of my worst moments.
Proof of every
flawed
that I am.
Devoid of every
perfect
that you are.