By Asma Shatwan
We’ve been walking with no aim, dream, or goal,
hoping to trip upon a treasure map, leading to gold.
Not the stuff that twinkles brightly or the stuff that shines,
But something that’ll bring back the sparkle in our lives.
I feel like we’ve already had the kiss of death.
I’m trying to be different to you but I’m just like the rest.
You tell me I’m wrong, that our future is bright.
That we can do whatever if we put up a fight.
But I don’t want to fight this battle, enough of this internal war.
I’d rather you see the back of my head leaving out of this door.
I know that I hurt you, and I’m sorry that I lied.
I always tell myself you’d be better off if I died.
I know my words leave scars behind, but what I’m telling you is true.
I convinced myself I was different, so why do I do this to you?
I’ve been the same for years now, always say I’m going to change.
Even my simplest mistakes now fill me with rage.
It’s building up inside me; someday I will explode,
say more than I should, regret, and feel exposed.
I’m sorry for the tears, and I’m sorry that I’m here.
If you want me to, I promise, I will disappear.
I know that I’m wrong, even when I’m right.
I don’t understand that vision is different to sight.
Every step forward takes me two steps back.
I’m sorry I don’t think before I attack.
I’m sorry for all the lies and how stupid I have been.
I feel like I’ve betrayed you, the knight that slayed the queen.
I’m sorry for all the drama caused, the tantrums and the pain.
Does sorry make a difference if I make the same mistakes again?
I know we should hold on, although we’re slowly slipping off the edge.
Like the slow and painful suicide, off a building’s ledge.
I’ve apologized and you’re forgiven me, we’ve agreed to start afresh.
I must remind you that sorry, for me, is the hardest word to express.