You said “I’m sorry” like it fixed the flame,
Like my scorched heart would forget your name.
But baby, you can't bandage a bullet wound
With a whisper and a half-hearted tune.
Your apologies showed up late, in pieces—
After I’d stitched up all your creases.
You broke me quiet, slow, and slick,
Then thought a sorry would do the trick?
You ghosted when I needed light,
Then showed up acting all contrite.
I lived in the wreckage, you just moved on—
Called it “a mistake,” like it wasn’t prolonged.
But this isn’t Hallmark, I’m not your trope.
You drained my spirit, then dangled hope.
I begged for change, you gave delay,
Then offered an “oops” to smooth decay.
See, your sorry never hugged the bruises.
Never rewound the silent abuses.
It never fed me when I starved for care,
Never stood up when I gasped for air.
You want forgiveness for your guilt trip ride?
Well, sweetheart, that train’s on the other side.
I’ve upgraded my tracks, switched destinations—
No more layovers at your manipulations.
I’m healing now, in fierce defiance,
Not waiting for your fake compliance.
Your guilt is yours to carry, lone.
This strength? Built it all on my own.
So keep your sorry, it came too late.
I’ve got peace now—and baby, it’s great.
'Cause closure isn’t owed, it’s earned,
And your lessons? Let’s just say—they burned.
