Sorry

In the voice of a siren, will she become curious again.

How will it look as she swims back up to where the ice broke when her mother left.

She scrolls through a list of numbers she probably won’t ever call.

Wouldn’t it be easier if she came with receipts, a book of hereditary receipts dating back to whoever on her family tree picked up the first drink.

Someone she could blame it all on.

The walls are soft on both sides.

Wouldn’t it be easier if she kept the receipts from her previous relationships, something she could use to pinpoint where the paranoia came from.

It would be easier if she kept track of what the first sorry sounded like when it came out of her mouth.

How old was she?

What did she mean when she said it?

How did it feel?

What was the response?

What provoked it?

Maybe it’s not too late.

Maybe she could start a sorry journal.

Pieces of paper to mark down her apologies, something she could go back to, maybe find some kind of pattern.

But then again, she remembers.

When she hears the word sorry in the voice of her own, she is able to reverse the equation.

Sorry is a soft pillow for the burdened that are only offered an inadequate bed.

Sorry is a bandaid for the pieces of her soul that need to be repented.

Sorry is a kitchen left unclean, and an empty promise to do it when she gets home.

Sorry is a soft pillow for the burdened that are only offered an inadequate bed, but it’s a feather pillow, and he’s allergic to feathers.

Sorry makes them angrier.

Sorry means she’s lazy.

Sorry is an empty promise to clean the kitchen.

Sorry means she’s already decided what the end of the day will look like.

It will look like a dirty pan in the sink, and an empty bed, and a break, a break, they need a break, they need the world to revolve around them for a minute, just a minute.