I haven't said I was sorry: for all of the glasses I broke in the kitchen, the scratch in the hardwood floor from swinging the couch around to better see the TV; the watermark on the table from so many cups of tea when I would write by the window, the lotion smears on the un-lackered table by my side of the bed; how poorly I could tuck in those jersey sheets; how much space my hair products took up: in the shower, under the sink, in the second drawer of the vanity, in the shelf in the closet. I can't seem to go through the house without sparking something on fire, I know, the drips of coffee on the cushions of the couch, rogue blonde hair strewn on the ceramic tile, bobby pins left here and over there. I would have liked to leave behind a softness when you think of me and maybe a mark on your heart, but the scratch on your truck's bumper will have to do.
[Psst this is my 600th post! Thanks for visiting xo].