Clear Conscience

We've told each other uncountable things.

We've guaranteed that we both would be wrong.

Unavoidable matters are ripe to grow blame,

A morass that prevents moving on.

When you tell me not to worry about the past,

You don't use your talking-to-friends voice.

I know you want me to hate myself,

But that goes against all my self-training.

I know all you hear is your own hatred's echoes;

It drowns out my voice, and its straining.

I know it bothers you that I'm unbothered by the past,

But does this really look like my clear conscience face?