SEVEN

Don’t say sorry

Goodness! Do not

From your lips

It’s so foreign a word

It merely draws a snicker

 

Like plastic flowers

Shamelessly masquerading

Without the feel, scent or even look

Of that which  they  seek to ape

It is mildly insulting

That word Sorry

 

You see

 

The things you burned

We not silver or gold

They were scrolls upon scrolls

Of precious precious poetry

The fragments of which

Now live scattered

In the corners of my mind

 

 

So don’t say sorry

Say anything but

 

Sorry is a minute that came

And waited with bated breaths

-Sixty of them-

Then it left

 

It left.

#LettersToMyPlacenta

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