“The Apology That Never Left My Mouth”
There are words
the body remembers
even when the tongue refuses them.
Mine sat at the back of my throat
like a house guest too ashamed to sleep,
fully dressed in truth,
waiting for courage
that never arrived.
I was not searching for forgiveness.
I only wanted the weight
to stop behaving like a second heartbeat.
You would think silence is empty,
but silence is one of the heaviest things
a human being can carry.
Especially when it is crowded
with sentences that almost lived.
I remember how my jaw tightened
around every syllable.
How my chest became a locked room
where honesty paced in circles
until exhaustion taught it stillness.
The apology was complete.
Every word polished.
Every truth awake.
It reached my teeth
and found them closed
like frightened gates.
So I swallowed it.
And people never speak enough
about the physicality of restraint
how the throat aches afterward,
how the body punishes itself
for becoming a graveyard
to something living.
Since then,
I have understood that some truths
do not disappear when unsaid.
They simply change form.
Some become distance.
Some become insomnia.
Some become the quiet habit
of staring at ceilings
as if they might open
and finish the sentence for you
26/05/26
Ghana 🇬🇭
May 26
May 26, 2026 at 5:12 AM UTC
“The Apology That Never Left My Mouth”
There are words
the body remembers
even when the tongue refuses them.
Mine sat at the back of my throat
like a house guest too ashamed to sleep,
fully dressed in truth,
waiting for courage
that never arrived.
I was not searching for forgiveness.
I only wanted the weight
to stop behaving like a second heartbeat.
You would think silence is empty,
but silence is one of the heaviest things
a human being can carry.
Especially when it is crowded
with sentences that almost lived.
I remember how my jaw tightened
around every syllable.
How my chest became a locked room
where honesty paced in circles
until exhaustion taught it stillness.
The apology was complete.
Every word polished.
Every truth awake.
It reached my teeth
and found them closed
like frightened gates.
So I swallowed it.
And people never speak enough
about the physicality of restraint
how the throat aches afterward,
how the body punishes itself
for becoming a graveyard
to something living.
Since then,
I have understood that some truths
do not disappear when unsaid.
They simply change form.
Some become distance.
Some become insomnia.
Some become the quiet habit
of staring at ceilings
as if they might open
and finish the sentence for you
26/05/26
Ghana 🇬🇭
Some apologies are never spoken, not because they are insincere, but because the body sometimes fails the truth it carries.
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