For all the mistakes I’ve ever, I’m sorry
For every equation, mathematical explanation
For every wrongdoing and in shoeing and for every left turn I ever made, I’m sorry.
For forgiveness, I am sorry
For apologies sake, I am sorry
I was born in sickness and from the moment I walked I felt Atlas’ burden on my shoulders
I am selfish, I am unruly, I am forgotten and regretted and in debt to the people who reached out to me
I am moving forward, starting backwards, put my arms around my head for I am shattered
I have a heart with an empty home and clichéd voice with whose words I yell, I roam a lonely earth and put arms around my head, my mind in fact, for I am shattered.
A race of humankind I cannot love nor relate to and I feel like I relate to you but lately I feel as if I’m drifting backward
And not to say I’d like to move away from you but what else can I do when life is moving me backward
And backward, and backward and like a future so pre determined I feel as if no choice is now my own and no choice is ever free will
No cosmic force would remember me and I am sorry
I do not want to be something you forget and you’ve always told me I am something you remember.
In a shade of cobalt blue or a burning red or a golden yellow, I want to be a colour you cannot describe
A taste you yearn for, a smell whose memory remains
But all the same, I want to disappear.
I am sorry in terms long over due for all the things I do and have not done yet because you don’t deserve their scorn and yet I cannot leave them behind for parts of me for which you fell for remain inside me, and always will.
I am sorry for who I am and choices made and I will always be here whenever you decide the pieces I can’t leave behind are pieces that you cannot forget.
I’m sorry, my makeups both genetic and aesthetic are not pieces I enjoy or wish would stay a little longer
And for this I am sorry, and all in good time I will make up for all the sorries given, driven, laid to rest here in these words.
I am sorry for things you don’t deserve.

I’ve spent the last year inspecting my ceiling.

Every night or free afternoon, I crawl into bed.

My massive, hopelessly needing bed.

And I lie on my crooked spine and stare at it.

I think it changes everyday based on how lucid my dreaming is

I suppose I could say that about anything these days though, couldn’t I?

That everything changes based on my perceptions of life.

Or just based on how tuned into reality I am.

It’s a funny thought.

My ceiling is eggshell white.

I remember picking out what white I wanted with my mum in the hardware store.

“Ivory or snow?”

I don’t care, mum.

“Well it makes a difference you know.”

No it doesn’t, mum.

“You say that now but, we will come home with snow you’ll realize you wanted a yellower tinge and we should have gotten ivory.”

Fine, get ivory then.

“I think we have egg shell in the basement. Let’s save us the trouble and use that.”

So we did.

And now whenever I crawl into a state of disillusion and forget what the world is supposed to feel like under your fingernails or through your hair when you’re sitting in the sun, this is what I see.

An eggshell ceiling.

Which, in retrospect, sounds graciously poetic.

Sometimes I wonder if it’s possible to concentrate so hard that you become lighter than air and float up into my ceiling.

I fear that the eggshell colour influences how durable it is.

As if it literally might be eggshells and I could burst through it and keep going, further and further until no one can find me.

Maybe if we had bought ivory that day in the hardware store it would be tougher and hold me in.

But, honestly, I don’t know which is scarier.

To be trapped, safely bound, into my room by the ceiling above me

Or drift aimlessly until I hit a satellite dish or even just an airplane or tangled in a kite and fall back into the great atmosphere.

I wonder where I’d land.

I wonder where I’d end up if I just started to drift.

Would anyone notice?

Of course they would, how foolish of me.

A giant gaping hole in my fragile ceiling.

Even if no one went in my room I’m sure they’d notice when the rain that fell through the hole started to flood my room and leak out from under the door.

I wonder what the world sounds like from so high.

I wonder if it’s noisy up there.

I wonder what colour your ceiling is when I lay there now.

I hope that it’s eggshell.

Or cotton ball, or wedding veil.

Something you could tear through and drift through until you found me.

******* hell, I want you to find me.

I’ve spent the last year inspecting my ceiling.

I haven’t found anything interesting out about anything since I started