Punched too hard.

Something happens. Anything. Slightly jarring. A brushstroke of wet black paint on a white canvas. Just a bit too much lemon juice, not enough sugar — too sour. A baby pin prick. A little scratch. A slight jab. Essentially nothing.

And yet, I punch back. Hard. I light a match. Fire. Explosion. It’s a mess. Regret. Regret. Regret. Shame. What did I do? Why did I say that? How do I go back? Head in hand.

A huge painful ball blocks my throat. It’s hard to breathe. Will I be able to swallow it and let the airways open up again?

Repeat words and behaviors over and over in my head. Over and over; shame on embarrassment. Embarrassment on shame.

I hold my breathe awaiting when the self-anger will pass. It will but right now it doesn’t feel good.