I am sorry for saying things when
No One Asked for My Opinion.
I am working on it. I am sorry
for bath bombs filled with glitter
even though *technically* they are not my fault.
I am so so sorry for no longer understanding
what people mean by *technically* like I used to
think I understood when I was 9.
I am sorry for when I was 9.
For the cruel selfish irony-savant
I was then, so gloriously terrible, it seemed.
I am sorry for being terrified. Sorry
for all my fears. Sorry
I could not carry the load, a load,
any load – could not accept anything
weighted with responsibility. Til God
came at me with Shock and Awe
and I lost my grit and wits and soul and brevity.
I traded all that in for a hill of beans.
I am sorry I was never king of that hill.
I’m sorry I ever hated anyone. I’m sorry
for being sorry. I’m sorry for my stained jeans.