There is a guilt that rips through your chest like a heart attack  after watching your first vandal shoot a rock at a window and seeing the cracks start to form

before a shower of unfixable mistakes 

litter down into the neighbor’s flowerbeds. 

A mistake that can crack your ribs like wishbones, praying 

to get away with it this time. Each bone bending and snapping  under the weight of your light-up Skechers, leaking your 

bone marrow out onto the dirt for the ants and maggots. 

Little things break little bones. 

But sometimes your bones graft into something stronger.

You cup the glass and let it nip your palms as God’s retribution during your Sunday morning confession:

I'm sorry, I didn't mean to; it was all an accident. 

But you don’t confess. Not anymore.