Not Sorry

“I’m just too intense,” she says

As though she’s identified the source of the problem

She apologizes for her existence so obvious

Consistently overcompensates for what requires nothing

Over-giving regardless of whether they are deserving

Constantly saying and thinking:

“There’s always something I haven’t learned it yet, haven’t said..”

Exhausting the constant roundabouts in her head

That never lead her anywhere but to that persistent feeling of:

“I’m sorry.”  She’s sorry for being sorry.

Preaches forgiveness yet doesn’t know it.

Quick to take a hit, take the blame and carry it far and wide

For anyone willing to unload it onto her

Emotional martyr with no cause

The bouts of introspection can only go so deep

before she’s whiplashed back in the driver’s seat

Never learning to sit back and receive

She says “I’ll make it up to you.”

But there’s nothing to make up, no one to be sorry to, nothing to forgive

For this, for taking up space, for intensity, creation and intent

It’s hers alone to claim and own, mitigate and investigate

Creating a kingdom, where she alone is queen

Upon a majestic throne, purple velvet, lush white sheepskin

She opens her legs, opens her heart, and lets the glory in

She’s not sorry.

La_salle_du_Trône_(Château_de_Fontainebleau)

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