Regrets

Yesterday I stepped into sorry
and wound up knee-deep in regret.
Sticky stuck, messy muck.
How did I get here?
“This isn’t my mess!” I protest.
But the bubble of safe choices
I built around me
burst when I bumped into
the sharp edges of your brokenness.
Bubbles are fragile things.
They can’t protect you from life.
And so here I am
in a place not of my own making
but where responsibility and guilt
approach me hand in hand.
Menacing things.
Why can’t they leave me alone?
“I didn’t do anything!” I shout.
“Exactly.” They answer.