Therapist This - Doseone

My guilt don’t pause lathes in the lionhead handbag factory…

Don’t stop no shovels at the virgin boy refinery, actually

This guilt is pure

Like biting gold coins at the company store

But not too lightly

This gruesome toothy guilt of mine is mighty

This guilt of mine would have arrows in my eyes…

This guilt of mine can’t turn abortions into wine

Fires had its way with all my building

It’s an every kind of goodbooks angels absence guilting

No, this guilt of mine

Is no years old

And young like before you decompose

This guilt is marked with red

A stairway to where it hurts

A fearsome church built from black

Stone and the body of hopeless bricks…

And this guilt thicks

Gagging whole sewer pipes

When its heaviness drips…

But it’s hard waters don’t put out shit