The fingers down my throat
aren't mine -
not really;
though physically attached,
they belong to others,
less forgiving.
Punishing my exhuberance,
pulling out all that's inside.

This weighty chastisement
of the guilty
exceeds the original sin
- did I smile too often?
- did that offend them so?
Round peg, streamline hole.
If only I'd known...
the agony and anguish
would continue to grow,
and crush me still further.

They blamed
with vehement red spite -
while I slipped, so quietly
away.
My hand fell through
their loose grip,
just in time for me to wave
a fond farewell.