I stood on the stand and confessed my sins. Letting you, the jury, judge me. Seeing me for who I was. Yet you were also the prosecutor, and the judge. I was never afraid to show you the mess that was swept under the carpet. I knelt down and began watering our gardens growing our fruits. Yet again the sins I confessed hurt you, my words like a knife sliced through every dream we created. I took from you like I would my last breath. Yet I don’t know what you want from me, I have no more “I’m Sorry”