I stink of good intentions. They were manufactured in an ol’ factory a long time ago.

My best intentions waft as pure as vanilla extract sniffed straight from the bottle—until the scent dissipates, and I’m left with the guilt of knowing better.

I hide my bad intentions beneath hard work and chemical shine. I inhale the faux-pine aroma until my thoughts are scrubbed clean.

Do I have criminal intent? If I could, I would steal your pain and replace it with lemony joy when you weren’t looking.

Now, exhale.