He says: I’m sorry.
The words echo like quarters flung carelessly into a well 20 feet deep. A deafening loud silence followed by a misting splash, accompanied with the ripple of hushed sorries.
The truth is, she already knew. She already knew he was “sorry” and still wanted to believe that he could be more than that. She could hear it in his voice. He was sorry his secret was aired. He wasn’t sorry it happened. He had no remorse for the soul he crushed, he was sorry his two-timing empire was dusted by the ashes of his own destruction.
He is a boa constrictor. Spineless. Low. Only able to stand when using his prey; he wraps himself around the ankles first making it difficult to run away; and then slivers and coils around her body until locked in a warm embrace. At first it feels welcoming, a firm secure place she hadn’t been in awhile until the grip tightens and she realizes the life is being choked out of her.
To call the man that wakens a woman’s passion with no intent of tending to it a snake, would actually be an insult to the animal kingdom. At least snakes don’t do harm for sport. Snakes serve a dual purpose in getting rid of unwanted rodents and even when they’re dead their skin still serves a purpose. The “sorry” man is useless in that way. All he has to offer is knee-jerk apologies that are as good as bandaids on a 3 inch deep gash. Your sorries don’t fix what you broke.
To call him a snake would be offensive to the serpent. At least snakes have real vigor. He is weak. A coward. Only able to operate with the battery someone places in his back. His courage is carried in someone else’s pockets, leaving him no choice but to wander aimlessly behind someone for the rest of his life. He is sentenced to the shadow’s of someone else’s strength because he has none of his own.
The ones with the most mouth usually have the biggest insecurities. They’ll puff their chest and raise their voice to distract people from seeing how small they really are on the inside. He is nothing but the wizard behind the curtain. Claiming to be all knowing and powerful, but really nothing but bells and whistles when it all falls down. That’s how he must get women to go down the yellow brick road. In hopes that once she takes the journey to get to him, there will be something worth finding. He needs her to find something there because he doesn’t even know himself.
He is, whoever he’s with. No real self. Just a combination of whatever character traits someone lets him borrow for the day. He is at the mercy of everyone else, because he can’t exist alone. He doesn’t know what alone feels like. He doesn’t smell the scent of empty room, hear the silence bounce off naked walls, see the dim room with shapes of nothing or feel the chill of solitude. He must always have someone to hold his hand and guide him back to comfort.
In comfort he doesn’t have to acknowledge all the places where he has failed, he only feels the temporary win. Sometimes his constant state of sorries no longer walk behind him or beside him when he’s fucked up, no sometimes his sorries lead the way. Commander of the fuck boy coalition. You are Sorry.
You have become an Apology. Nothing more than a tall dark glass of Regret. Bitter to the taste, thick, cold. With every sip of your Sorry she becomes hardened. Calloused by your Remorse, you leave her rougher than you found her and wonder why she is so hard. Each of your sorries steal a heart beat, thieves are not welcome in her temple so save your sorries.
Keep them for yourself. You owe yourself the biggest apology because you let yourself down everyday you’re Sorry. To keep it a buck, your sorries don’t do her any favors. It doesn’t lessen the blow of your fuckery, it doesn’t make her think you are a better person. Your sorries don’t save you from being who you really are.
You say sorry to make yourself feel better because it’s harder to accept that you are still a half empty box of puzzle pieces scattered here there and everywhere.
You have no home. You are incomplete. Lost. And low. You. Are. Sorry.