Every time you change your plans with me, and you leave my messages on read A wooden match is struck and lit, down a line of phospherous red.
Although the flames grow dimly and uncertain of them selves, The crimson tongue of shame and remorse ensconces my body; Each burn reminding me of what I’m not. Punishing me for doing nothing but repeat my mantra of sorry.
Remorse and sorry are so often confused, yet they are nothing alike; For I’m sorry when you say a loved one has passed, But remorse is that niggling feeling you are well beyond the light.
Do I feel remorse when I hurt a friend? No. I feel sorry. But do I feel remorse for the life I could have had, If he didn’t touch my body.