Inglorious

I’m sorry for the silence, how it deafened into space.
How I learned to stand in presence but not long enough to stay.
Showed my love out loud in spades with marks that never fade.
Acceptance loomed like pressure so I grew to hesitate.

I’m sorry for way I sliced my flesh after I bled.
How I built a wall of logic just to house what wasn’t said.
Every trigger got a thesis, every feeling got revised.
Below I felt it all and still refused to let it rise.

I’m sorry for the distance that would surface through my pride.
For the moments I stayed present but reserved my mind inside.
Reaching with intention all while bracing for the weight.
Each time I felt a closeness I could also feel the break.

I’m sorry for the younger me that learned to live like this.
Every lesson laced with tension, every kiss a hit-or-miss.
The way I had to twist myself to fit inside the frame.
How I took what I was given and mistook it for my name.

I’m sorry no one taught me what it meant to be received.
How to hold what’s being offered without certain it would leave.
Every softness had a shadow, kindness counterfeit.
So I learned to read the room before I ever stepped in it.

I hate that I became what I was trying to outrun.
Turned damage into pattern, let it echo what’s been done.
The truth is I was shaped in every way I shouldn’t be.
To give without restraint but guard what’s given back to me.

Yea, I’m sorry for the ways that I was hard to understand.
For the times I found my footing but did not know how to stand.
I’m sorry to the part of me that carried on this curse.
For learning how to give but not accept love unless it hurts.

— Tami Jo Urban