it's hard to look back sometimes
harder than holding on, i guess.
so take it as penitence when i let go.
can you forgive me for admitting
that i don't miss you?
i'm painting the walls of the steeple
to match the color of my regrets
so that when
i tear it down
they could recycle it
into a confessional.
the walls will learn to speak
as soon as i learn to write
in something other
than the dialect of my pride.
"i'm sorry"
means a lot less
than the wood splinters
on the ground.
tell the construction workers
to be careful,
the paint is still warm
and blood is sharper
than you might think.
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