More than anyone, I owe myself a constant stream of apologies because one isn't enough for my self-transgressions. I wrapped my wounds in crimson lace so as to disguise them as softness and still, my skin is a rusty can of worms to every clueless stranger. Still, it leaves an ugly scabbing, even flowers dare not to grow. I owe myself myself a stream of apologies, for chewing on daylight countless of times — biting down hard until my tongue bled and spit out a carcass of dusks. I have carried it, buried it beneath my spine, until my back has become a living headstone people carelessly drive by. I wish I too, could forgo this mourning, like the rest of the world. Still, I find myself waking up to apologies left on my doorstep. Maybe one day I'll mean them. And maybe one day, I'll take them and accept them all. For now, I'll let my mouth be an exit wound for this aching — though it's never small enough to leave. And I'm never small enough to leave.

Maybe one day, I won't have to. I hope one day, I won't have to.