Sorry doesn't cut it does it?
But it does.
It cuts into my skin, leaving trails of red,
Of crimson, of burgundy
Of a shameful, deep red.
I'm sorry, but you don't understand, do you?
You never do.
The rope feels inviting against my neck.
Oh how it fits my head!
Its forgiving roughness hugs my throat,
And I can't help but croak:
I'm sorry.
I'm sorry that you were never here to help me;
I'm sorry that I never felt happy;
I'm sorry that you caused me to do this
To me, to myself.
Sorry doesn't cut it, does it?
Now, you feel sorry.
You cry those ugly tears of shame.
Tears that had pooled around my eyes
And grew, day by day.
You're sorry.
But sorry doesn't cut it, does it?
I'm already gone;
And you're here to stay;
With your sins of hate
And your late apology.
Sorry doesn't cut it.
So I felt that the previous poem was a bit messy, so here is another one. Sorry.
