i’m sorry
some days,
i constantly want to
apologise for existing.
make myself vanish,
a magic trick i am
still practicing.
a bumbling, huge creature,
out of place everywhere.
misfit is a romantic way to put it,
the beginning of a coming-of-age.
i am the before, without the after.
the bullies in my story,
are also scripted.
what insult could they throw at me,
that i hadn’t already perfected?
it’s natural to feel alone,
but i would not wish loneliness
upon anybody.
in a world full of people,
it boxes me in.
a fist crushing my lungs.
i want to shout just how much
i long to be loved.
but i use my insecurities
as weapons,
and if i gave them to others,
they might turn them into props,
for a comedy onstage.
most days,
i am constantly
apologising for existing.
loudest thoughts are
the ones unsaid.
an echo chamber, inside my head.