(Her: “I… feel bad about… what happened.”

So, you’re apologizing?

Her: “Yes! I’m sorry…”

Okay. I don’t forgive you.

Her: “E, I said I’m sorry.”

Yeah, and I do not forgive you. The scars from the cuts, the bruises, and the trauma do not forgive!! I have to wear makeup to cover them, so I do not forgive you.)

In a solemn space, her voice did sigh,
“I… feel bad about… what happened,” she cried.
A longing for solace, an apology’s plea,
Her words hung heavy, filled with remorse, indeed.

“So, you’re apologizing?” I asked, firm and cold,
A heart locked away, my forgiveness untold.
“Yes! I’m sorry,” she pleaded, voice trembling and meek,
Seeking absolution, her spirit seemed weak.

But my scars, oh, my scars, they whisper their pain,
Etched on my soul, a reminder of disdain.
The cuts and bruises, trauma’s cruel embrace,
They refuse to forgive, forever leaving their trace.

“I don’t forgive you,” I declared, resolute,
Each word like a dagger, my heart’s bitter fruit.
Her apology faltered, tears mingled with fear,
As my wounds bled anew, salted by memories severe.

For I wear makeup, a mask to conceal,
The visible marks, the wounds that won’t heal.
No forgiveness in sight, no solace to find,
Only shadows of torment, etched on my mind.

The conversation weaved into a poem’s embrace,
Unveiling a tale of pain, laid bare with grace.
A dialogue of sorrow, where forgiveness faltered,
Echoes of anguish, where wounds still altered.

Yet, perhaps one day, forgiveness may arrive,
A tender release, where pain can subside.
But for now, the scars remain, a testament true,
As I navigate a healing path, seeking peace anew.