I forgive you even though you didn't apologize.
You didn't apologize and never will.
I forgive you because I'm the better person.
I'm the mature one, the one who's older.
But at times like these, I take my forgiveness back.
The memories, which seem to hold a grudge against the forgiven, resurface.
The pain, the weight, the sounds, the thoughts—
All at once, they lay heavily on me.
It's too much. They're too heavy.
I snatch my forgiveness out of your ungrateful hands.
The white wall is painted red,
My head, the painter, continues its assault.
It paints until my vision blurs,
Until red washes over the memories,
Until all that is left is an aching pain in my head.
I sigh.
I return the forgiveness to your hands.
YOU ARE READING
Eldest daughter rage
PuisiPoetry that chips down the barriers we forcefully built, softens our hearts, and lets the wetness that pools in our eyes ease the memories of our suffering.
