Counting on fingers
Isn’t always easy,
Because apologies, come
In envelops and gift wrapped trinkets
And also, in
Unspoken adage,
Of tears collected
In the creases of bedclothes and curves
Of my neck, face.

Listing apologies, unaccounted for.

I am an apology, a testimonial
Of the mistakes I made, and am
Yet to make;
I wear my apologies like battle scars.
Flaunting, strutting, as if to say,
‘Look! How accepting I am
To my countless mistakes!’
And also…to the mistakes others made…

I apologize, for my bad humor
When I was only trying to justify my feelings
For the first time, inside my head.
There is a wildfire, raging,
Just like how delicate strokes build up the bigger picture
Or burn the picture –
It never mattered.
It still doesn’t.

I ought to be more in control, they said;
Prim and proper.
What they meant, was for me
To tame my head.
My emotions are a ticking time bomb;
They’ll kill me first, before they can touch you,
Even a shard of the shrapnel.
What if my recklessness taught you to believe
That exaggeration is just my way?
In a flicker, it turns all my concerns
Into softened ash, after the wildfire has raged.

Ever since then, I’ve been flying fistful of ashes
Everyday.

 

3 August 2016

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