Tell my mother I'm sorry
that the love notes I wrote were never for her,
that she never had enough time to actually pay attention to me or what I said,
that she wasted her time tucking me in at night to help me feel loved when it never even helped,
that I stepped on the cracks in the sidewalks so her back was constantly broken  while she was trying to provide
for everyone else but me.

Tell my dad I'm sorry
that I was such a failure that every step I took in the right direction was the wrong one,
that his voice went hoarse but at least he was acknowledging me,
that no matter how many times he left bruises I counted it as a hug,
that he never had time to listen to me,
that he never had time to swallow his pride,
that he never had time to love me.

Tell my siblings I'm sorry
that they never took the time to understand me,
that they'll never know just how easily harsh words can stick in someone's brain,
that I ended up so much like the person they despise,
that I lived up to every negative expectation they had of me.


Tell my friends I'm sorry
that my conditions were some sort of joke,
that I never actually mattered unless they needed something,
that when they replied laughing out loud when I said I was dying they couldn't even recognize I actually was.

And tell my heart I'm sorry
that I forgot how to sew it back together again
when it
stopped
beating.