It is saddening that all your sentimental confessions came
down to just one word: Sorry.
Sorry, that supposedly means feeling distress especially through sympathy, or
feeling regret or penitence, or just a polite expression of apology. But of
course, what good can sorry do? Even if I willingly take The Sorry, what glad
tiding should I expect it to bring?
I, too, am sorry that you feel guilty of breaking my heart. But, before
expressing your utmost grief and pity, please place your bloody hand on the
cracks of my heart. Cut yourself on the sharp broken pieces. Cut it deep. Let
the blood splash out. Your blood, this time. Feel the excruciating pain. Feel
it so much that you scream out loud in tantalizing agony and your screams run
back to you like a ghost. Your ghost, precisely.
And then, when finally the echo of your scream faints you only need to realize
that you have cut your tough palm, and the weapon to cause such inflicting
damage was the slaughtered pieces of my heart that you have kindly left with
me. What do you feel now? I am generous enough to give you a bandage with antiseptic to cover and
heal your wounds. But you, I must say, are conniving to offer a “sorry”.
Sorry? No, I am sorry.