Emotional Shrapnel

We love to be victims. We wear our damaged hearts on bloodied sleeves. We cherish the buried shrapnel with serrated edges, that lies deep within, in time-lapse lockets, waiting to be unlocked, awoken and inflame again. The sharp painful shards and regretful splinters are awaken by, silly deja vu triggers of guilt, regret and happenstance, and innocent throw-me-down one-liners, floating on the wind. They trigger, echo and ricochet painful memory laser beams, that blast into irrelevant virgin-ground places, reverberate and resonate, and build the inflammation, we want to feel. For we long to be long-suffering victims, infected, shrapnel-scared, beyond redemption, serving our time as voluntary introspective inmates in jail, with no parole.