I have nothing to apologize for.
It's not my fault that when I was thrown to the dirt, I blossomed
and you got mad.
I don't know why
I torture myself
the texture of your name when I take my pen across the page
Because I know the loops and dips of your name as much as I know the curves of your smile or the bump of your elbow or the scars you left on the inside of my cheek
Because I held my tongue so long it bled and turned black
and now I can't speak
I forgot how my words taste in my mouth
they come out sour or bitter when it used to taste so sweet
hard-pressed, heavy-inked
like the scribbles when your pen dies mid sentence
When it dies in the middle of a thought
when you think about something so insignificant for so long
That you can describe exactly what it looks like.
I could write something so deep
it would scare an angler fish.
I could show a blind person
exactly what color the Eiffel Tower is
but I won't,
more like I can't.
Because I don't know how to write about the sunshine
I can't tell you what color my favorite flower is,
But I can tell you
Rain feels the best when you're in a cotton dress and no shoes
running down the street ignoring the pain
and the blood from your ripped up feet.
I can tell you
that trees smells disgustingly sweet
in the middle of July at 1:49 am
When the temperature is 89 degrees.
I will not apologize
because I don't understand
why I'm not as beautiful
as the girl who smells like peonies,
just because I smell like gasoline.