Premature glimpse of moral decline

I hate that. being caught by conscience
when doing what you always vowed against.
like with my mother's scarf.
old, withered, but of comforting sentimental warmth -
the kind of stability one finds in old jumpers.
and yet, I had to pull that thread of temptation
and unravel the work of
delicate memory strands, once knitted with
veracious old hands,
torn by my young ones.
the pattern of creation was forever destroyed by little me.

I never told my mum I had done this.

on the chilly autumn morning
when she could no longer find her scarf
I choked on my own guilt. I told her
that she must have left it on the bus seat for
some other soul to discover, that it was gone from her reach.
I lied. I could never knit her a new one.
I had unravelled a labyrinth of denial that
for a small child, was a large burden to carry round.
morals had been violated in my earnest little heart
and after the lies had seeped from between my sinful lips,
riled by my wrongdoing
I took my self along to the washroom
and cried my woolly eyes out.