but then again, I’m sorry

You were the blade

that found my skin.

I reacted like a wound does;

by opening and bleeding.

But I never meant to frighten you.

I’m sorry for bleeding,

I’m sorry for aching

where you could see.

I should’ve learned

how to hurt

more quietly.

You broke things in me,

and I rushed to sweep them up

before you saw the wreckage.

You always hated clutter,

odd for someone

who loves breaking things.

Maybe it isn’t the clutter you hate,

but how it reflects

what you did,

what you made of me.

You pulled the trigger of silence,

I offered you my chest,

then said sorry for the stain,

for spilling more than I meant to.

I don’t know

why I wanted your comfort

more than my own.

I apologized

for the sound of my hurt,

as if pain were impolite.

They say we seek comfort

from the one who hurts us.

So I reached

for the hand

that hurt me

hoping it would be

the one to heal me.

Maybe that’s why

I kept waiting

for you to speak.

But you never did,

and I realized:

ever since you touched me

I never stopped aching.

It was you all along.

The ache I was trying to heal

was living inside me.

So I pulled out the shards,

and finally, I breathed.

You were the wound,

now you’re the scar.

And scars hurt less,

for they are proof

something once ripped.

The silence you left behind

sounds familiar,

as it has always been

your only language.

But now it feels lighter,

speaking clearly at last,

telling me exactly where I stand.