My will gets weak

Forgiveness is a thing that I keep trying to work with like taffy; it's sticky and glutinous and doesn't really resolve itself into any shape until you swallow it.
I think of the hurts that I've kept with me for a lifetime. When my best friend Susan's brother commented on me eating seconds at their house for dinner, the first and last time I was there. Or, when my Dad called me a name or a friend made some dig. I've kept them though not in the front room, more like down the hall towards the back of the house in the mud-room where they can remain dirty and stick together in a dark area.
Then there are things I've done. Remarks and offhanded jabs. It's a shorthand for us, to say something of a nature to hurt and make it sharp when it really is a mass or amalgamation of all that makes us not right with ourselves so like any surface holding down the pressure, we pop and let it out in the wrong place and usually at the way wrong person. But, we go on and collect these items in our hand baskets and head towards the checkout.