I can't change

but I

tried.

 

At least hard enough

for that guilty

piece of my

mind to

run and

hide.

 

I pretend it vanished,

but I know where it sits.

 

It sits in the old me,

the dead,

molted,

me,

hiding,

and waiting.

 

Waiting for nothing.

 

It's return will be a touch

too late to save me

from myself.

 

Is that a pity,

or success?