I
took it all.
Like a sponge in dirty water,
I soaked up every drop of blame,
every whisper of guilt that echoed off your silences,
every sideways glance that told me
I was the wrong one.
And maybe I was.
Maybe I am.
I held the worst of us in my palms
like hot coal I thought I could carry
if it meant you wouldn’t have to burn.
I called it mine.
Owned it.
Branded it into my skin with shaking hands
and a trembling voice that just wanted to say,
“I’m sorry.”
And I was.
God, I am.
Not the kind of sorry that spills out easy,
but the kind that lives behind the eyes,
the kind that sleeps beside you like a ghost,
the kind that wakes up every damn morning
just trying to do better.
I made my amends.
I stood there naked,
spirit bleeding,
heart cracked open like a confession booth,
and I said the truth.
No justifications.
No excuses.
Just the wreckage.
Just the wreckage
and my hands
and this mouth that can’t take any of it back.
But even that
even that
wasn’t enough.
I was critiqued.
Corrected.
Told I didn’t explain it right.
As if there’s a manual for this.
As if grief and guilt come with an index and a glossary.
As if I’m not already choking on the ash of who I used to be.
You wanted more?
More what?
There’s no sentence clean enough,
no paragraph that could purify
what I did when I was drowning and calling it swimming.
I’m an alcoholic.
I was hurt.
I tried to survive.
I didn’t do it right
I know.
I didn’t do it well
I know.
But I did it.
I did it because I believed
some part of this could be rebuilt.
I thought you might see me standing there,
in the ruins,
and say,
“Okay. We can begin again.”
But instead,
you said divorce.
You said end.
You said nothing at all,
and that said everything.
No levity.
No grace.
Just the dull, clean cut of reality
slicing through what was left.
And maybe…
maybe that’s all that’s left.
Maybe that’s what this has to be
ugly, sharp, and final.
But don’t you dare say
I didn’t take responsibility.
Don’t you dare say
I didn’t carry it.
I dragged that pain like a cross through a storm
just for the chance to say,
“I see it. I own it. I’m sorry.”
And you?
You looked at me
like I was still the same monster,
like my sorrow wasn’t sculpted into every breath.
Maybe you needed more.
Maybe I had nothing else to give.
Maybe all that’s left
is this poem,
this ache,
this truth
I took it all.
I still am.
And maybe
just maybe,
I’m finally learning
to put some of it down.