An apology sticks on my tongue like outdated bread.
I push it around praying perfect phrases
manifest to explain why I did
the god-awful thing I did,
why I hurt you with the only weapon I wield —
pen to paper
an anonymous letter to the wife you didn’t claim.
But words like distrust, past trauma, sisterhood elude my mouth
as you rage on about how you’re “such a nice guy” and “a good father”
and question “Why would someone do this to me?”
Instead, I sit before you mute,
tune out your narcissistic monologue,
and ingest my excuses.
You couldn’t have swallowed them anyway.