Two men recently told me I apologise too much. I guess I’m just used to it.
Apologising for the space I took up, for the time I was waisting, for the timing I got wrong by a clock I’d never seen. A clock that always seemed to be wrong or changing or in another time zone. Sorry for the thoughts I shouldn’t have had, or feelings I shouldn’t have shown, or felt, or owned at all – apparently.
I was always sorry.
In the darkest room, lit only by your gas light I was sorry.
Sorry for my shadow.
Sorry that it couldn’t stand taller.
Sorry for my silences that sang like a choir in my mind.
Sorry for the room.
Sorry for the dark, for the light, for the air.
Sorry I am.