I am no stranger to shame. He has a niche in my closet. I pull him out regularly and shroud myself in his darkness. Shame is the only real promise I've kept to myself. And he's been reliable. No, Shame is not a stranger we know each other well. If I thought I could speak in the language of flowers, Shame was there to correct my delusion. Shame's face has been loitering in the reflection of my teardrops since my memory began. Shame is the truth that colors my cheeks and bows my head. Shame's been my sorrow and my redemption, and my world turns at his whim. I hope he has call to be kind to me. I am no stranger to Shame, though I'd like to grow apart.
(c) Jessica Mitchell