I almost killed a man.
I almost put
the gun
the knife
the pills
in his hands and took him away.
Away from
his family
his friends
and me.
I’m sorry.
I’m sorry that
I didn’t love him
the way I was
supposed to.
I’m sorry that
no one believes
in transcontinental love
between two teenagers
on the internet.
I’m sorry that
no one believes a
keyboard or a screen
can give the same
kind of happiness a
hug or a kiss can.
I’m sorry that
my friends think he’s
a 45-year old man,
living in New York,
with his mother,
who preys on little girls.
I’m sorry that
I tell lies to
protect myself from
men who might harm me
in this foreign world.
I’m sorry that he
eats those lies up
like a starving man
before a feast.
I’m sorry that
I can’t trust him
one hundred percent
because he could be
that 45-year old man,
living in New York,
with his mother,
who preys on little girls.
I’m sorry that
the words I type
with my fingers
are not the words
he wants to see.
I’m sorry that
I’m not who he wants
me to be.
I’m sorry that
I almost killed a man,
because he loved me
more than I loved him.