I fished this poem out of the drain,
and forgot to clean up the mess before you came home.
You don’t say anything about the ghosts in the
corner of the room or the tree branches I hang
like a chandelier over my bed to remind me
that I am not the only one who has lost parts of herself.
If there is another name for being loved like this
then I haven’t learned it yet.
If there is another name for being forgiven like this,
then it must be yours.
This isn’t supposed to be an apology,
but I am sorry most days anyway.
Sorry about the holes in my bones.
Sorry about the guns I keep loaded,
just in case something haunted still lives in a closet somewhere.
Sorry about the well I almost drowned in,
Sorry I’m always chasing dreams down the wrong rabbit holes.
Sorry I keep shrinking myself down.
If there is something else you wanted to hear from me,
then I am sorry about that, too.
I am constantly making apologies,
but you’re never one of them.
What I mean to say,
is I love you even on the days
I don’t know what love is.
Even on the days I am sure
it doesn’t belong with me.
Y.Z, Wishful thinking (via rustyvoices)