There is this feeling I do
not know the word for.
I honestly do not think
I want to know a word for
it. By knowing the word,
by calling an emotion by its
name, I am recognizing that
it exists and I do not want
to do that.
I do not want to acknowledge
that my heart houses more
than just blood and that I
cannot write away all of my
feelings.
Which is what I am
trying to do right now.
I am am trying to wrap my
brain around this pit in my
stomach, this paranoia,
this sense that every story
I read is about me and that
every song I hear is about
me and I know it is not
true but maybe it is and I
do think
I am terrible friend.
I think I am horrible person.
I am sifting through old
emails and reading antique
threads and reckoning with
the fact that sometimes I
am horrible.
Sometimes I take advantage
of people and I have such
an ingrained fear of being
lost that I turn it into
abandonment.
The difference between
being abandoned and being
lost is that one happens
on purpose and one happens
on accident yet everything
supposedly happens for a
reason-
I have to be the one to write
that reason out or I am going
to spend my whole life trying
to fill in that darn blank and
I am explaining away my
broken friendships as
mistakes on my part and
that I am horrible or maybe
I am not or maybe we both
are
But sometimes things just
happen but I can not let them
just happen because nothing
just happens and
I want to tell my pastor that
nihilism is actually a pretty
comforting thought for
someone with anxiety because
in the end, the only reason is
death and
I would rather die lost than
abandoned because I do not
want to leave my end on
someone else’s guilty
conscience even though
I am the one who pushed
them away.
I know this is a long way to
get around to an apology but
I want to apologize to everyone
I have ever ghosted, to every
relationship with an autopsy
report that reads the cause of
death as “just not responding”
or “being left on read” or “just
not caring”.
I do care. I care a lot. I hear the
messages you did not leave in
songs and the agonies that you
did not express in stories and
here is the apology hidden in
a poem you will not read. I am
sorry. I am sorry that even when
seeking forgiveness, I am putting
myself in the center and as the
title of the letter. I am sorry, but
I want you to know that I actually
do not want forgiveness. I am
aware that I do not deserve it.
I have taken enough away from
you as it is.
I am apologizing to the ghosts
of people I tried to leave behind,
to people I tried to push in front
of me, to the people that were
outside of my house when I
locked all of the doors and set
it on fire. All that mattered was
that we were on two different
sides, and if someone is going
to suffer, it should be me.
The only way I know how to
burn a bridge is by standing
in the middle. The only way
I can light a fire is by using
my fingers as matches.
I am both a serial killer
apologizing to a ghost and
another ghost apologizing to
a ghost and regardless of
which way you look at it, it is
not going to be enough for me to
move on. That is okay. You are the
only one that needs and deserves
to move on. You
can leave me behind. You have
my permission. I am used to it.