The word sorry sits
burning on my tongue,
tasting like the metal
objects, that my dad always
yelled I would choke on,
that I need to spit out,
and I sit comforting them,
my chest bleeding, soaking
me as I shiver from the heat,
hot just like when my dad
caught me and I disagreed,
sorry sits in my mouth, a medal
lodging itself deeper every time I speak
it, to fill the silence that slices
through my eardrums,
that they sit so comfortably in,
and I am choking,
not sure that I will ever breathe
again, because sorry is thick and hot,
more like my own blood
than the silver coins that I once loved
and I wish I had been warned of this
Instead.
Alexander Nile is a writer from Central Illinois, with a focus on emotions and the complexity of people. He enjoys tackling new challenges in the form of picking up new creative hobbies and exploring with different styles.
Comments