So Much For Sorry

They say they can’t drive and that they’ll have to stay at yours, in your room, in your bed. You don’t stop them, but you tell them you know exactly how this will end up, and they nod and agree like they understand what you mean, but they don’t read between the lines of your cracked lips. You see, you’ve been writing this story and that lets you invent new pasts to arrive at this present under the pretense of your very own future perfect tense. And they’re smiling, and you smile back with rows and rows of teeth ready to tear into them, because they think they want that smile and your chapped hands all over them, but they don’t know that this is a goddamn shootout and you never take hostages. And they’re still smiling, but it’s getting harder with your tongue in their mouth and they’re saying your name or something close to it, but it doesn’t really matter because this is just what you do. You try to leave people as wrecked as you are. You see yourself in every sigh and set of heavy shoulders you create. And you want to say you’re sorry, but you know sorry won’t cut it, so you keep your chapped hands all over them knowing that come morning they’ll be born again broken and you’ll still be the same.