puddles at my feet

I say it time and time again. I don’t always mean it, but this time, this time it drips from my tongue and forms a pool at my feet. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” I apologize for every damn thing I do and maybe those two words have lost their meaning, but oh God, I don’t know how else to say it. These syllables are a familiar taste in my mouth when I spit them out again. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I mean it this time, and if I have to drop to my knees in this puddle of I’m sorry’s at my feet and beg for your forgiveness that’s what I’ll do. If I have to repeat these words until they’re the only words I know how to say, until this puddle becomes a pool and I’m drowning in it, then that’s what I’ll do. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.

  • m.f.
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