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What does regret taste like? That was our writing prompt in class this morning. When discussing regrets, I tend to say I don’t have any, that everything – good or bad – has brought me to where I am today, to the life I have today and made me the person that I am today. That doesn’t mean that I haven’t experienced regret or haven’t tasted it. I’ve had some big ole bites of that nasty stuff. From our pen to paper, no editing (which I unintentionally fudged just a bit by crossing out a sentence) stream of consciousness writing this morning, this is how regret tasted to me:

Regret. It tastes of salty crocodile tears that flash flood down my cheeks and against my lips, like the monsoons, unpredictable and violent. Sometimes a flash of lightning preempts the storm, at other times it rolls in silently, catching me unprepared. Sometimes a light shower, at other times a raging flood.

Regret tastes of a broken heart, despair and desperation. Barely able to breathe, barely wanting to breathe.

Regret tastes like a hangover in the works, strong alcoholic beverages burning a trail down my throat, creating more salty, stormy tears. If I drink enough, maybe it will reach my broken heart and numb the aching or fuse it back together. Maybe it will burn all the way down to my lungs and I won’t have to worry about breathing any more.

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