‘There’s Not Much More I Can Say’

‘There’s Not Much More I Can Say’

There’s not much more I can say.

The waiters in this coffee shop stopped to ask me if everything was alright.
I haven’t answered them yet. And though you didn’t ask me a question, I have a response.

I apologise.

In the most heartfelt way, with undertones of anger, I apologise.

This anger though is only partly directed at you. I try to send my frustration to you but like an unopened box of letters of love, it returns back to sender.

That’s why the music that I make, the music that I listen too, screams. It screams so that I can release myself of this structure. These bounds on my hands. For if I cannot touch another, then they will forever be unaffected. If I leave them be, they will know a different fate.

There is a list in my mind, tallying up the number of mistakes I’ve ever made. That is the only time I cannot stand picking up a pen. This form of self-reflection is leaving me defenseless as maybe you’re right.

Maybe you always have been.

In the past, those ticks on the list of mistakes have presented themselves in the form of physical scars on my left forearm. I do not intend to add to them, to the wounds of this war.
In my attempts to help them heal, I say now that I am sorry.

Nothing really changes, though does it?

I’ll rise loudly, while I hope you rise too.

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