i’m sorry i was embarrassed to put the book you gave me out on the shelf.
i kept it in my underwear drawer with the other things i didn’t want people to know i owned.
i’m sorry i bit your finger so hard it bled.
bedtime, circa 1987.
i’m sorry i couldn’t say yes.
you asked me three times and i said no each time even though i knew from reading fairy tales that three is the magic number, the last number. i knew there weren’t any more numbers after three, but i couldn’t say yes.
i’m sorry i called you a bitch.
to be fair, it was after you called me a cunt: christmas night, screaming at each other over the kitchen counter in those ridiculous red and green sweaters. the tinsel, the lights. the johnny mathis records. you slammed down your mug of dark christmas beer and it shattered and i left. neither of us had anybody else that year.
i’m sorry i wasn’t braver.
if ever there was a body i shouldn’t have let walk away, it was yours.