Where do apologies derive from? Blame Plato for Socrate’s admittance.
Is it really a justification? An entrance toward human error? A plea. An alibi. A reveal of regret.
A man bumps into me as I make an attempt to gracefully exit the 3 train.
A man bumps into me.
A lover tells me about the passing of an uncle.
A woman knocks against my bones on the street.
Throughout a day, we apologize numerous times and I wonder how many of them are actually worthy of their elocution. What can we replace these sorry’s with? A gesture? A universal grunt? A widening of eyes and tilt of mouth?
It was not my fault you bumped into me. I exist. Am I apologizing for my existence?
I did not remove the final breath from your uncle’s body. What else is there to say when someone leaves this earth?
We even apologize for our pasts when, oftentimes, they make us better humans.
I desperately need to unapologize because there are times when I really am sorry. When I need to utter those words that we have masticated and spit into too many ears. We’ve removed the potency, so I am taking it back.
I am not sorry that it is rush hour and high heels click like monsters against cement toward an already packed subway train and there are few spaces free of bodies. I am not sorry that you have no place to put your hands so you must lean against a metal pole or brush up against another nine-to-fiver.
I am not sorry about my promiscuity. It led me closer to recognizing what I like/what I need/what stirs me. I am not sorry for my previous occupation that split me into two minds and bodies. Professor called middle-aged-white-m told me to stop writing about my body so much. Move on. Can’t I just write about something else?
I will no longer apologize for writing about the body so much. We write what needs to get out. There are numerous translations and lost languages swallowed inside our blood. I will not apologize for my languages.
I am not sorry for being a different kind of queer.
I am not sorry for losing trust in humanity. I’ve grown accustomed to the callus formed against my heart.
I am not sorry for walking outside your politics and creating my own.
I am not sorry about falsifying the color of my hair. The roots were always made from flames, but I needed to make them louder. Sometimes we need to change things to make them closer to how we feel them to be.
I am not sorry for needing to be alone so much. Loneliness can be just as thought-provoking and I can leave anytime I need to.
I will not apologize for my scars. They are zipped into me. If they make you uncomfortable, maybe you need to address the disfiguration attached to you. They are my hieroglyphics. They are the map that follows me everywhere. No, they were not an “art project”. And no, you may not touch them unless I give you permission.
I am not sorry for losing you as a friend. Friendship should be like water: easily drifting toward and away…floating…diving in and gargling with existence.
I am not sorry for breaking up with you. It led me to the one who brought me poems and body experiments. Who led me to the one full of traumatic adventures and grease-stained kisses. Who led me to the one who salted my wounds. Who led me who led me who led me.
Apology is just a noun. An admittance of failure, most of which we had no part in. Save your apologies for the moments that really matter; for the times when it needs to spoken. You will know when it must be pulled out of crumbled pocket, ironed out and spoken: