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.

They speak it like balm, like a soft remedy, like something that stitches what used to be.
As if it were gentle.
As if it were kind.

But sorry is hunger.
Sorry is time.
Sorry is standing where fear meets the truth, choosing the wound over rot in the roots.

Everyone bleeds. 
The one struck first, the one who confesses, the echo, the hurt.
The room that must hold what’s finally said, the quiet that follows what honesty fed.

No one walks out without bearing a scar.

And still, it is spoken.
Again.
As we are.

Because sometimes the blood is the only clear sign,
that the wound has been given permission to heal,
that pain has been named,
that it’s no longer sealed,
that what was destroying has started to yield.