sorry seems to be the hardest word

they tell me: don’t talk about it. DO NOT. TALK. about it. no one wants to hear, no one wants to know about this. just drop it, it’s bringing us down, for it’s “bothersome”, “inconvenient”, and “really unnecessary shit that I don’t need to deal with right now”. it’s a “grand drama, a soap opera”, they tell me, and they “wish it all could go back to those good, old times”.

well, I’m sorry for being the boring cliché, but if I am to be sincere, I’m so heartbroken it’s not even funny, let me tell you. I’m sorry I’m this container of undesired feelings, and I’m truly sorry that I spill them out at every opportunity, let them awkwardly tumble out when I’m weak, when I’m fragile, when this hole in me opens up and just oozes, like the badly healed wound that it is (and that I know I’m doing a horrible job at hiding); I’m sorry that my mouth blabbers with unrequested utterances of tenderness, my drunk fingers fumble, telling you yearnings in the middle of the night, and specially the terrible, terrible love that I created for you but that I have no one to give to. I just intended to deliver it to you, but I can’t… so I’m sorry this all makes you highly uncomfortable. I really don’t mean you any harm, I just don’t really know how to behave around you (since long had it been since someone came along like you did and took the longing I had to offer).

they tell me: you are making a fool of yourself, stop this whole thing while you can, while there is still something to salvage. pick up the pieces of your wreckage, reassemble and move on. save a bit of your face and what’s left of your dignity – don’t say another word and go lick your wounds quickly to see the sun rise for anther day.

so, I’m sorry that my actions and parlance confuse you, but I’m disarmed by feelings that I don’t know yet how to manage, and I’m sorry for all the poetry and lyrics and art that I see and that seem to make so much sense, to translate what I can’t sort out in my brain and just spill out in orderly fashion. I’m sorry for my discourse… it’s confusing and it’s too much…. but it’s just that I wanted to give you all of this as a pretty gift, as beautiful color no one has ever seen because I created it only for you. but it’s spoiled. I see now it is no good. I see that you have all the colors you want, and your palace that you cherish. so, I am so, so sorry for this stench of ruin, and for being the annoying person that puts on this show that ended only forcing you into a corner, trapping you like a wild animal when all you want is to be free. I am sorry I am your hunter and that my actions scare you – I never meant to chase you… but, as you know, love is cruel and love is selfish and my gift turned out to be noose, to capture and keep you only for me.

they tell me: you are out of control. you are burning bridges again and this whole situation is unbearable. you are becoming radioactive, and it’s being hard being around you. we fear you, you are losing your mind.

and maybe I am, I’ll admit it. I seem to be having a real hard time making sense of it, as well as getting my head out of my ass. however, I am so spellbound it’s not even funny, let me tell you. I’m enchanted in a way, bewitched by a spell that has awakened something inside me that has been reserved for only one person in a distant past, long, long before you. something so foreign that I had long forgotten. something that, when remembered, it is as much beautiful and idyllic as it is fabricated. so, I’m sorry for my pictures, my illusions. I am sorry my ideal of loving is disturbing. sorry this inner person of mine frightens you with its mercurial and jealous temper. I am sorry: I am tempestuous and impulsive when requiring your attention and I’m sorry for being a belligerent, spoiled child-King that yells and bites heads off when my demands are not met. in my head, all I wanted was to give you the safety of my embrace, make you a nest inside my chest for you to live and heal your battle wounds, the wings your past has broken. I’m sorry the arms I think are loving are vices that suffocate, that are leashes that want to bind and domesticate a heart that prizes in being wild.

you tell me: I no longer can be like this.

and I believe you. I can’t either.

so, I’m sorry for this all. it’s what I least wanted. I’m sorry I can’t say sorry, sorry you can’t accept my sorry. I came in peace, really, but I am a creature that is not used to kindness and softness of smiles; all I know is clawing my way in to thrive, so an overbearing, arrogant monster I became. I am sorry you had to see it. I hope you can forgive me, and that you can forget it, for in the future, I really don’t want this part of your life to be tarnished, because, for me (in parts) it was very special.

and I don’t really want to live with the fact that, when you to have to recount this story, you do it with a frown on your face – don’t want you to tell it as a tale of the terrifying things I did for love.

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