Whiskey Bottom.

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I live a half life, yo,
that I’m always guilty for.
Sorry I was born.
Sorry I was a girl.
Sorry they almost divorced.
Sorry they stayed together.

I learned to compromise
and call nowhere home.
No directions, no set belief.
So what am I guilty for?
Sorry I was never young.
Sorry I don’t like people.

Sorry I lie because
I don’t want to talk
to convince you something
I can’t wrap my head around.
Sorry I change my mind.
Sorry I walk you into a trap.

I remember what I said at seven
to convince my parents.
I remember the moment
I discovered a tape
that turned my care-free
into bone-deep suspicion.

I’m sorry that I’m sorry.
I feel guilty feeling this.
Am I supposed to grow up?
Why does it feel like death?
What do I have to adjust
to feel like a well-adjusted person?

I say “sorry” to myself.
I’ve let myself down.
Not owning my differences,
still not cutting it.
Maybe just a little space,
a breath, at whiskey bottom.

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