Crow and Flame

I’m sorry
that I keep measuring my worth
by the distance
between your expectations
and my trembling hands.

I’m sorry
that I never seem to find
the right words,
the right timing,
the right version of myself
to make this easier.

I’m sorry
for every way
I believe I’ve let you down,
for every moment
my heart wasn’t enough
to quiet your disappointments.

I’m sorry
that I can’t seem
to become the woman
I imagine you deserve—
the one who never doubts,
never cries,
never needs reassurance,
never breaks beneath
the weight of trying.

But somewhere
between all these apologies,
I wonder
how much of myself
I’ve buried
trying to grow
into someone else’s idea
of enough.

Because love
shouldn’t require
the funeral
of who we are.

If I am forever apologizing
for existing as myself,
then perhaps
the tragedy
isn’t that I failed
to become
who you wanted.

Perhaps it’s that
I almost forgot
I was someone
worth loving
before I ever
started saying,
“I’m sorry.”