You know that burning

You know that burning,
Like a hot rasp,
Through your veins
When the button is pressed
Too hard and too fast,
The vaccine rushing to fight the good war?

Well, it’s like that, the guilt.
Not a “feeling”
The way one feels love for
Those most precious,
Or disdain for commoners
Who “don’t want to follow the rules.”

No. It is parenchyma. It is Brute matter
That stings its way through the heart,
Searing the invisible scars that
Never heal, simply become temporarily dormant,
Until that nearly imperceptible
Tinge of blame unkindly resurfaces.