I have filled countless notebooks,
pages stained with ink and regret,
each line a declaration,
I am sorry, it’s my fault,
words bleeding into my heart,
each apology, a weight,
as if every bond I touch
shatters like glass,
and I am the storm that sweeps through,
vanishing whispers in the silence.
I think of all the faces,
friends turned into shadows,
Love turned into silence ,
moments stolen by my hand,
the laughter now echoes of what was,
and I retreat, a ghost in this life,
fearing they will forget my name,
while I clutch this guilt,
like a soft chain around my soul.
I wrote sorry for friendships lost,
For love that got broken ,
for the ties that fray
with every hesitation,
for the wounds I never meant to inflict,
I never desired to become this,
but in the mirror, I see the stranger—
the one who loses,
the one who loves with trembling hands.
If you’ve felt the sting of my carelessness,
know it was never my intention
to become a shadow,
swept away by the winds of my own making.
I apologize for every broken thing,
each heart that aches in quiet despair,
I’m sorry for the hurt I never saw,
for the nights you sat alone,
wondering what went wrong.
I don’t want to be this way,
yet here I am,
with pages filled with sorrow,
a soft plea for understanding,
hoping one day,
the inked words might fade—
and in the silence,
we can start to mend what has been broken.