How nice would it be –
if we lived in a world where every mess we made was cleaned up by someone else
if words that escaped too soon could be rewound into the subconscious
if actions that wrought devastation could be expunged
I’m sorry. Let’s move on. Let’s pretend that never happened.
Well, it did.
You did that.
Life isn’t nice –
We live in a world where we clean up our own messes.
Our words are sometimes soldiers sent to inflict our internal war on others.
Our actions unravel like a ribbon – never be re-tied into the perfect, geometric bow.
Oh, so you don’t forgive me?
Look, I don’t need a band-aid.
I need you to re-attach my amputated limb here.
No tape will fix this –
No needles and thread
And even then –
assuming my limb is somehow salvaged,
nothing will ever remove the scars
a legacy of life
a portrait of grief
Life doesn’t have a magic eraser.
It’s written in ink
and you’ve signed your name on the dotted line.