There's a pinprick on each of your knuckles on one hand and I think I can hear you say they're for weekdays of guilt.
You're saying you'll scratch out "sorry" on your palm and press it on everything you own so the blood stains leave their mark.
You think the world is much easier to live in if you don't have to apologize with your lips.
“Don’t take too many pictures of the same thing,” you snapped once but it was only because you wanted them to see the sky turn from pink to orange for themselves and not on glossy paper. It was almost like you were saying sorry to the sky.
You watched something funny once and I remember you kneeling over with your face in the carpet. I thought you were laughing until you refused to get up hours later and I saw tears seeping through the fabric and realized you were begging on your knees.
You stand by the glass window, your eyelashes catching the light with your eyes downcast. You do that every time you think you cannot tell the difference between being ruthless and pretending you don’t care.
I remember the day you stood across and finally looked right at me with your black eyes and your gritted teeth, your breath steadied in patterned gulps, your hands hanging down the sides of your hips.
Your biggest apology was this stone cold silence.