The apology ritual

River

Why am I the one

who hurts the ones who stay—

maybe because I never believed

anyone would.

I’m sorry

for causing problems,

for being a problem,

for thinking I was allowed

to speak.

It was a mistake.

Maybe I am a mistake.

I punish myself

so you won’t have to.

Be cruel—

I expect it.

Be kind—

and I flinch,

wondering what it will cost.
Pain is normal.

Kindness is a suspect

I only ever wanted

to be loved

without fear.

I’m sorry

that I overthink,

that I feel too much,

that I flinch at shadows

and hands

from a lifetime ago.

I’m sorry

that I wanted to be screamed at—

not for drama,

but because silence

feels like abandonment.
Maybe if someone

had chosen me

instead of the bottle,

I wouldn’t feel like
a ghost in my own story.

I’m sorry

that compliments make me sick,

that kindness makes me run,

that I reach for sharp things

when my feelings get too loud.
I’m sorry

for breathing air

someone else might deserve.

I’m sorry I’m still here,

still trying to escape

a life I never chose.

I’m sorry.

I’m sorry.

I’m sorry.
But—
I’m still here.

Somehow,
I’m still here