My name is daughter, wife, woman and I am eroding into one reliance: sorry. I committed another sin of the sticky additive: sorry. It resurrects by accident: sorry. Something low to the ground and rushed: sorry. I block the shelf of canned tomatoes sorry I drop something without breaking it sorry I wilt away someone’s quarter-hour sorry Dark and easy, like everything wanting to be quit. Trying oops, hey there, my mistake-- the ratio is off. I’ll go days without realizing sorry sorry sorry another resolution restarted. For what? For what? For what? Please don’t taunt me. Wasn’t it you who gave me too little space and scolded me for dripping down the walls. Didn’t you lust and lust and lust after what I am then demand for purity and ladyship. I remember, it was you who sympathized with the poor, lonely man excusing his violence, his unwelcomed ding One (1) Unread Message Aren’t you sorry sorry sorry For what? For what? For what? There is penance growing in you just as I am emptying of all my atonement
First Published in The Avenue, Issue VII: Freedom, 2021