Ripe

I’m sorry I’m selfish
That I can never really say the right words
The things you need me most to say
Never leave my throat.
I swallow them back down, like too-hot tea
and feel them scorch the inside of me.

I’m sorry I’m sorry,
it proves that I’m weak,
instead of a Thank You,
instead of regard, appreciation to you,
I say that I’m sorry,
because it’s easier to say,
because it means you’ll stay.

I don’t have the words, to say what I mean,
I tell a story, hoping you’ll read in between.
But in the narrative that you’ve heard told
one that’s rushed and surely gotten old,
I’ve never told those twisted words,
leaving them inside, underneath to churn,
where they’ve curdled and surely gone bad by now…
with all the selfish sorry’s that live inside, how could I say them.
Spray them, or pray them, or mix them anew…
and give them to you.