Don’t give me your sorry.
It’s a trick.
A smoke signal after the fire’s already swallowed the house.
You always show up
when there’s nothing left to save.

You think I’m stupid.
That I’ll flinch at your voice
go soft when you say the word just right—
like it’s a spell
like it’s supposed to undo the blood on the floor
and the shit you left in my head.

“Sorry.”
You say it like it costs you something.
It doesn’t.
It’s free for you.
Cheap, even.
You spit it out and move on.
But I stay here,
picking up the pieces
your apology never touches.

Do you even hear yourself?
Do you even know how many times I’ve swallowed the same lie
because you dressed it in guilt
and called it growth?

If you were sorry,
you’d shut the fuck up
and stop doing it.

But you don’t.
You never do.

So don’t hand me that word again.
Don’t shape your mouth like regret
if it’s just a shape.
Don’t look at me like I’m supposed to feel healed
because you mouthed some tired syllables.

You want forgiveness?
Earn it.
But don’t hold your breath.

I’m not interested.
Not in your guilt.
Not in your guilt parade.
Not in anything
that starts with “I’m sorry”
and ends with me hurting
again.