It hasn’t happened yet.
But it’s coming.
I feel it building in the back of my throat
not guilt,
not shame,
but that old familiar heat
that says you know better now,
so do better.
And still…
I stall.
I rehearse what I’ll say in the shower.
Whisper to ghosts in the mirror.
Run simulations like a nervous machine:
They yell.
They cry.
They don’t remember.
They laugh.
They forgive.
They don’t.
I’m afraid of every version,
especially the ones where they just stare
no reaction,
just the heavy silence of a person
who doesn’t owe you a goddamn thing.
That’s the worst, isn’t it?
Not the rage,
but the indifference.
Because I was always so loud in their lives
my chaos dressed in charm,
my pain wearing other people’s skin.
And now…
I’m learning to show up
without the armor of excuses,
without cracking a joke
to dodge the dead air between us.
I know my tricks.
The way I wrap pain in poetry.
The way I turn confession into performance.
The way I say I’m sorry
but make it sound like feel bad for me instead.
Not this time.
God, please
not this time.
This time,
I want my hands open.
I want my voice quiet.
I want to offer, not ask.
I want to speak from the place
that isn’t looking for applause
only air,
only space,
only a little dignity
on the walk to make things right.
The truth?
I don’t know who I’ll be
on the other side of these sorries.
And maybe that’s the point.
Maybe this is the doorway.
And the key is just
saying it
anyway.
Even if they don’t walk through.
Even if they slam the door.
Even if they ask,
Why now?
Because now is when I can.
Because now is all I’ve got.
And I am ready
to feel the weight lift,
one apology at a time
even if it’s just me
standing in the aftermath,
alone,
but finally still.