“Mark my words!” she said
So, he did
Taking the back of his fist to her daring lips.
Heady stars twinkling bright,
Solid punctuation to an Irish beat.
Hate tossed and gurgled at the back of her throat,
A riot of silent indignation.
Shame perched high in the branches of her mind,
Waiting to take its place.
It wasn’t called upon that day,
It was not hers to hold.
Anger buried; fast and deep,
Too dangerous now, sitting above the surface.
For the magnitude of his demons
Far outweighed
The multitude of hers.
She wasn’t sorry.
Sorry is reserved for the guilty.
He wasn’t sorry.
Sorry is reserved for beating hearts.
Resignation.
A state of sorry left for the lost and empty.
