your hurtful, unintended outburst smears
its residue, at day’s end, through your head;
as windshield-splattered insect innards spread
more visibly the more you work to clear
them off. then your frustration shifts to fear -
each phoneme of the awful thing you said
retributively burns while you’re in bed;
your dreams re-screen the scene. the seeing sears.
you know your glib remark might chip away,
within your victims, at the mirrored selves
they see inside, a stain until they die;
you know this since you still hear every day
a comment overheard when you were twelve,
made by a friend, about your lazy eye.