What can we say?

He got it wrong
again.
He’s sorry
again.

Once every ten years or so
This happens
And he’s mega wrong
and makes trouble.
But this is the worst.
He should’ve known better.
And she, well, it’s just worse this time —
I don’t want to talk about it.

I can’t fix it.
I would say I’m sorry if it would do any good.
But nothing I can do does any good.
So I tell God I’m sorry
I tell the air I’m sorry
I ask myself to please stop whatever is
in me that causes me to cause this kind of trouble

There’s so much in life that is beautiful
and so much that is worthwhile
So it is a shame
when a body
let’s itself
waste love
on selfish daydreams
that aren’t even nice
not even nice
he had thought
somehow

but letting myself leave reality
is my choice,
and whatever sins follow
are mine

please be well, be happy, forgive me

now I go

I am sorry
right through
to the bone
into the pit of me
I’m sorry
I didn’t tell you how I felt
in a way that could be nice,
that could make you smile,
that could let you know;
not just that —
in a way that could let me know;
because by speaking of it in that broken and self-circling way,
I also lost my chance to really know
what I felt so deeply, what held me for so long,
what I wanted so much to say, to do, to share

I’m sorry