Overtime

You apologize for
the blood on your pants
the fading scars on, the size of your soft white stomach
your thin hair, graying at forty, that would curl if cut short
the cancer that left you with your left breast and an unfinished reconstruction
and then the cancer that stole your right kidney

(Ironic that the left side, the sinister, was so good to you)

You apologize for having dreams
for your mother, who died even when you gave them up
for your guilt
for your pain

in short
you apologize for
existing.

I apologize for
hiding behind a cloak of professionalism that says
I am not allowed to cry with you
I am not allowed to hug you

Instead I tell you
cold water and hydrogen peroxide will get the blood out
Instead I give you
my open eyes and hope you can feel my heart in my irises
Instead I send you
into an empty world where you are not only alone but lonely
an empty world where no one apologizes
but you
and me.

--Anita