Harm

There was a choice:
hold your palms out
to receive the offering
or walk away unscathed.

I chose the former.
My hands flourished
with red, caustic.
I kept my rage so locked
tight even my own
key rotted away.

I couldn’t pick the lock.
It would’ve been easy
to explode. But still,
I kept quiet, holding
my breath like a knife.

It would be years before
I cooled. I look at my hands.
No longer flames.

I am trying to be kind.
I am trying to forgive
myself, who, in the end,
has caused me so much harm.