Have you ever been tired of saying that you’re sorry? Can’t courage your way out of this weakness; can’t forklift this stain out of your chest; can’t shatter these words into dust, drive them to the deepest ocean and wave them goodbye. After all, demons are easy to kill, for they coward under the strength of your words, melt under the banner of your truth. But I am no superwoman, not yet anyway. The law of my tongue half written, a scorching painting left unfinished. But I’m sorry sounds like broken English too distorted to be deciphered, so the flesh of my skin crawls away from the filth of this apology. My knees are stitched against the backbone of my breast, my arms stapled around these, my head tucked tightly inside of me. I am twisted. What kind of forgiveness got me in this fetal position? At some point a change has got to come. I have not the time to keep traveling on repeat; the same old album forgetting to change it’s tune; a dangling sacrifice. The birth and death of me are these apologies; both the resurrection and artwork of my eulogy. I have just had enough of these wretched…. I’m sorry’s.
The PBS Blog 