An ear-piercing crash breaks me from my daydream.
“What have you done?”
My grandmother's China plate lay in pieces across the floor,
perfect cerulean pictures, never to be whole again.
“Sorry” you say.
Sorry doesn’t cut it.
Shattered china still litters the ground,
all because you were careless.
Fissures, jagged edges,
because you couldn’t care less.
Shards slice my hands as I painstakingly clean up your mess.
How is it that after you are gone what you did still hurts?
Five letters strung together can’t change what happened,
two syllables won’t make me forgive you,
one word isn’t nearly enough to reverse the past.