I’m the pain

I’d be black.
I lack no uniqueness—
just black and white,
like a TV playing in the night.
If I had a smell, I wouldn’t smell pleasant.
I would smell like dust.
Dust that wouldn’t last a second—
for my dust is a bird flying in the air,
trying to leave.
But just like dust, I leave a trace.
I might have been blown away,
but my spirit is too stubborn to go.
It stays.
It stains.
It stays with the person I put in the most pain.
I was sorry, for I didn’t know.
If you try to wipe the dust, it wouldn’t go.
It’s permanent.
It stays on them—
for the words I said,
for the actions I dread.
All my stories mean nothing because the stain is there.
For an eternity,
I may be a victim once,
may be a victim twice.
But every counter—
I can’t be a victim all the time.
Sometimes people have left dust on me,
and I have on other people.
But that gives me no right to be a villain.
Now I stay with regret,
wanting to wipe the dust away.
But now I can’t—
because I will just always be a pain.