Labor of Unforgiveness

Late struggle lumbering
– can’t breathe, can’t swallow –
shallow skin, shiny and taut
with the anticipation of a thought
caught in the throat
like a knot.

Choke on that,
won’t you?

Smiling,
swiftly slit in the back of my mind,
is what I would say
– and mean it –
no, really,
MEAN IT –
for the labor of begging
unforgiveness
weighs condescending,
and you are not forgiven.

Choke on that,
won’t you?

Unsmiling, unbelieving,
and of a sudden,
I say it
– and mean it –
Yes, really,
MEAN IT –
stale efforts and sour endeavors
revisit unpardoned,
so squandered familiarity is the only thought.

Choke on that,
won’t you?

Smiling, again,
here’s the little secret:
I’ll never say it
– and I’ll never mean it –