Guilt!

This time, I haven’t wronged anyone.

This time, my slate is clean.

And yet — guilt is rooting itself in me,

Like I’ve committed a crime I can’t name.

The sensation of guilt is washing over me,

Pulsing through my veins,

Weighing heavy in my body,

Rising, minute by minute, without mercy.

Just a heaviness I can’t explain,

As if peace itself feels undeserved.

Not because I have done something wrong,

Or something to be guilty about!

No secret shame or silent regret.

I simply chose myself for once —

And guilt came knocking, uninvited.

Why is it always that I do something for myself,

It doesn't feel like relief — it feels like betrayal?

Why does choosing me come with a cost?

Why can't self-kindness feel kind?

Is it kindness I’ve forgotten how to receive?

Why does rest come wrapped in guilt?