chicken shit

Identity crisis. And guilt. Guilt. GUILT.
For every single little thing I do or do not do.

S t o p!!

For leaving.
Remorse pouring out of every single pore of my body.
My MFA, my dear life,
I have a career that I so carefully planned and worked for.
Whatever happened to I always know.
My choices. Probably never right.
Or almost never right. Or mostly right. Or whatever...

I don't know. Sometimes I do things and expect no consequences.
There's always something, they always come.
Consequences.
I've been offered fruits I don't really desire.

The truth is.
That.
I'm.
A chicken.
Shit.