I’m sorry for complaining or venting or maybe I’m just trying to drain the sadness within me, sift the ugly from the things that are trying so hard to be pretty. 

I’m sorry for spilling my feelings all over your favorite shirts and the seats of your car.

When I was a young girl, the doctor told me to always let someone how how I was feeling. He neglected to mention that only meant the good ones or the really really- break your heart in half ones- not the in between- it’s 3 in the morning and I’m so alone- feelings. Forget those “the color of this ring makes me feel like winter” or “don’t you think strangers hands look beautiful in the sunlight” feelings. 

I think he meant to say,

“Keep your ache to yourself and tell others that their sadness is pretty or poetic or worth putting in a song. Never hold things in, but always put on a smile for other people, just in case their hurt is worse than yours.” 

What’s the difference when it all leads to thousands of hearts crying on their floors in the middle of the night, with no witness but the moon? 

The reasons for ache diminish when we’re all left with fossilized tear stains on our cheeks.

So I’m sorry for talking about my feelings. Maybe I just feel too much. Maybe I don’t feel enough, and somewhere deep down I’m trying to remember. So my mouth overcompensates and spews out emotions in hopes that they’ll bounce off of something, anything, and ricochet back into my veins to mimic my voice. 

But somehow I don’t think that’s it. Because when it’s four o'clock in the afternoon and the sky fills with golden hues the color of straw fields, my heart swallows my body and I become more than me. So maybe that’s it- I just know how to become so much more than I am and I’m not quite sure how to explain that to you yet-

So actually, I’m not sorry, I’m not sorry at all.