Whispered Apologies

We lay together You silent, me sorry. A word I used to choke on, and now one that lives on the tip of my tongue. The overwhelm is what got me. The guilt is what eats at me. And still, you ground me.

I didn’t want to read the book, I wanted the silence, your tears to stop, the noise of the day that now lived in my head to ease.

I didn’t want to lay there until you fell asleep, even though it’s the part of the day where our little stories meet in the middle, mostly yours.

I didn’t want to be needed in that moment, even though you have given me strength by needing mine. The bags get heavy when we hold so much for everyone else.

I was tired. So tired.

Because when it’s a lot, it’s hard to remember it’s a lot for you too. But I know it is, because I lay there with you and studied your ski jump nose and fluttering lashes. I felt the warmth of your hand slide off my cheek as sleep wrapped itself around you. You’re not the smallest, but you’re still small.

I fall victim to that inner voice a lot, the one that tells me I’m not enough. But you remind me that I am. I didn’t read the book (I’ll read you two tomorrow) but I lay with you. And I stayed with you.

𝘠𝘰𝘶 𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘺 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘮𝘦 𝘢𝘭𝘸𝘢𝘺𝘴.

I’m the rocks under the waterfall of the hardest days. I’m the newborn who floats by the hands of trust in the best of them. Maybe I’m too hard on myself after all.

‘I’m sorry’ I whispered as I slipped away Unsure of who it was meant for.

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