Sorry
Sorry, They never meant to carry this word, this weight. A syllable sharpened by timing and fate. It waits on the tongue when silence decays, arriving too late, or too early to save. It’s spoken when damage has settled in deep, when pain’s learned the rhythm of staying asleep. When wounds make a home in the softest of places, between held-back breaths and familiar faces. To leave it inside feels quieter still, a suffering shaped into something called “will.” The ache becomes normal, the bleeding discreet, a life learned around what should not be. But pulling it free breaks the fragile disguise. Truth rushes out, unafraid of the light. The opening widens beyond what was planned, wide enough sometimes to end what still stands. And those who reach in to finally try, they do not leave with unbroken skin. This word has no handle, no merciful side, no way to be held without drawing a line. It slips through the fingers, it trembles the hand, asks courage from hearts that don’t understand. The...
