You arrived
wearing softer words.
“I was wrong.”
“I’m sorry.”
“I shouldn’t have done that.”
You handed me hope
like a fragile glass ornament,
asking me to believe
that this time
your hands had learned
how to hold it gently.
I wanted to believe you.
Because forgiveness
is a language
I learned
before I learned
how to protect myself.
But apologies
mean very little
when they’re followed
by familiar footsteps.
The same anger.
The same accusations.
The same names.
The same ache.
Eventually,
“I’m sorry”
became less of a promise
and more of a warning.
A calm sky
before another storm.
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