Apologies
I speak slow now.
Not because I don’t know what to say,
but because I’m trying to hear
what part of me is speaking.
Is it mine?
Or yours
wearing my voice again?
You taught me how to win arguments,
not how to listen.
How to protect pride,
not people.
How to cut,
not care.
And yet,
I am learning.
I pause where you pressed.
I breathe where you snapped.
I try to stay nice,
To hold on tight where you threw.
Some days,
I still snap.
Still see your fingerprints
in my reactions.
But I catch them now.
I try whisper no
in the places you would’ve shouted.
Every choice
feels like rebellion.
Every apology
like a stone lifted from my broken ribs.
I am unbecoming
everything you called strength
I never wanted to be a saint,
I just want to be someone I would have felt safe with.

















