The Habits You Learned from Him

Apologies spill from your lips

every

second

of the day

like dead butterflies

or living moths

like the dusty crumbles of burnt diary pages

like the act of cringing made all too familiar and distilled into spoken word

Every time you slip and speak your mind

you cringe verbally,

coughing up dried moth husks, old paper planes, and the ashes of loving yourself

they spill

and you don't notice the trail you leave

leading back

straight

to him

...and to the words that first made you say,

"I'm Sorry"