A fool once told me
That the word sorry is overused.
Said as a throwaway comment,
Spat as a silence killer,
Rarely meant, often confused.
Confused for forgiveness.
The word is no guarantee
That I will ever let go of
All that you have moulded of me,
Moulded me into.
Shaped, carved, cleaved into an existence
Where I wake up, offering penitence
For all I am, all I did, all I do.
My biggest fear is that I am a perfect mould of you.
The fool was right. The nightmare has come true.