I apologize every time I feel remorse. But sorry is supposed to mean something more than an inkling of shame; I’m just not sure what. No one seems to be able to tell me. So, I’ll keep saying it, every time, until someone can. When he left, shattered glass in his wake, I promised it would be the last time. As I picked up the pieces of a life I’d apologized for, until my throat went raw, fingers bloodied or razor edges, I cried out. Every word, except for one. I have no more love for him, no sorrys either.
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