I’m always apologizing. I’m always sorry. Always hanging my head in shame.
Shame…for nothing. Shame for breathing. For opening my mouth to speak. For words. For words…more words. Words. Shame for thoughts and ideals. For revolution and “rebellion.” Shame for a spot on a dish…a ride home…an extended phone call. Shame for what is within and without. Shame for what cannot be helped and what can, but not what was. Shame. So much shame.
Not for cigarettes or loud music. Not for drinking, drugs and sex. For late nights, parties, experimentation and broken rules. Broken rulers, broken records, broken rebellions. Not for cursing or spitting or chewing or trashing. For graffiti, brake lights and open bottles. Tattoos, piercings, short skirts, stolen items, pulled price tags. For stealing, theft. For cigarette burns and ashes, for broken bottles…empty bottles. For dyed hair, rock-n-roll, anarchy. For skipping class, skipping tests, skipping out. For cheating, lying and manipulating. For open windows and boxcar sex sessions. Not for secret lives.
Not for being a teenager. Something I was never allowed to me. Something I was shamed for. This openly pubescent “rebellion” that bled in me into isolation, bled me in to exile and abandonment.
And now…now I find the cigarette burns left by you.
I’m ready to throw out this jacket. But it pains me to say so. Is it possible to just patch it up? To replace the sleeve? It’s still the same jacket. Will it always protect me from the storm?
Or was it the storm all along?
I spend too much time thinking about the jacket.