I'm Sorry I Exist

I always feel unwanted, like I don’t deserve the air, like I should apologize softly for existing anywhere. Sorry for my breathing, for the space I dare to take, sorry for the sound of me, for every small mistake. I walk like I’m an inconvenience, like I’m borrowing the ground, like I should thank the room politely every time I make a sound. I say sorry for my heartbeat, for my presence, for my needs, like the world would be more peaceful if I learned how not to be. You could slit my throat wide open and with my final breath, I’d apologize for bleeding on the floor you’d have to step. I’m sorry for the mess I make, sorry I exist at all, I learned early how to shrink myself so others wouldn’t fall. I wear my heart uncovered, I don’t know how to hide, there’s no lock upon my feelings, no safe place left inside. I show people the real me, every fracture, every scar, and it breaks me when they hate me because I never put up bars. I comfort people with borrowed words, the ones I needed once for me, I memorize their wounds and fears like that’s what love should be. It’s not that I expect repayment, or keep some hidden score, but it hurts to give until I’m empty and still be asked for more. How do I keep on pouring when I’m hollowed out inside? How do I give from empty hands and still be called unkind? I move forward out of habit, not because I feel okay— I was taught as just a child never disappoint, just stay. I wasn’t allowed my anger, even when it wasn’t fair, wasn’t allowed to cry at all— that meant I was immature. Every time I tried explaining, every word I tried to say, they called it talking back and taught me silence was the way. So I learned I wasn’t worth it— not their time, not their reply, not their effort or their language, just the role of standing by. So why do I still crave it like I’m built from different stars? Like somewhere wanting is allowed and love isn’t this hard. Maybe in another timeline, some fairytale I missed, there’s a family that wants me without conditions on the list. Maybe there’s a gentle ending, someone who chooses me, but for now I keep on loving like that world’s a memory. I'll keep on pouring, even with an empty cup, they won’t notice when I run out— I’ll just bleed to fill it up. They’ll let my red water them, won’t ask where it all went, and I’ll say sorry for the stain, like that’s all I was ever meant.