Sorry to myself.
For hearing all my doubts so selectively and for continuing my numbing love endlessly. For helping you and myself: not even considering, for beating myself up and over functioning. To whom do I owe the biggest apology? No one’s been crueler than I’ve been to me. For letting you decide if I indeed was desirable. For my self love being so embarrassingly conditional. For denying myself to somehow make us compatible, and for trying to fit a rectangle into a ball. I’m sorry to myself. My apologies begin here before everybody else. I’m sorry to myself. For treating me worse than I would anybody else. For blaming myself for your unhappiness and for my impatience when I was perfect where I was. Ignoring all the signs that I was not ready, and expecting myself to be where you wanted me to be. Well, I wonder which crime is the biggest? Forgetting you or forgetting myself? Had I heeded the wisdom of the latter, I would’ve naturally loved the former. For ignoring you; my highest voices. For smiling when my strife was all too obvious. For being so disassociated from by body, and for not letting go when it would’ve been the kindest thing. I’m sorry to myself. For treating me worse than I would anybody else.
