For a night, I was God.
With a glass of red in one hand and
a pen in the other, I sat on my bed
and reread the last few years of my life.
I was stranger among my own thoughts,
a voeuyer into a life I no longer knew.
All my private mistakes laid out
in scribbled frantic strokes, but clear.
I sipped the wine, drank it down. I read and read;
I scratched out. Everything painful was delightfully
marked through over and over and over.
Every sin covered in black ink and gone.