That’s the word. Sorry. It’s shameless. It’s a Hail Mary. It turns a bloody nose into a rainbow, a black eye into a blessing. Sorry. It’s a fucking miracle. It changes everything.
It feels harmless, and woeful, and sometimes even full of humility. It can be charming and remarkable, or rigid and habitual, but it’s always an oasis. It’s a little victory, it’s a little flight. It’s a strange and curious word with strange and intrepid consequences. It’s the gateway. It’s dirty and cheap but you are lulled into it because it feels soft and warm in comparison, and you are sinking anyways. It’s the glass slipper to your prison. It’s a couple of coins clanging in the slots. It keeps you going. It’s badass.
Sorry. It’s the hero. The hope. The fear. The lie. The promise. The vindication. The blink of light. The humanity. The truth. The reward. The control. He is sorry. So you are okay. You are wasted but, you know, you deal with it and maybe you heal a little. It’s a different kind of reality. It’s precarious. It’s a tea party.
Sorry. It’s untouchable. It’s a place for humble students. And righteous human beings. And shitty fucked up shit. It’s a rest stop for emptying out and starting over and topping it off. It’s a burial ground. It’s roots… and wings.
Sorry. It’s more about you than it is about him… or anything else.
Nighty night Bluebird 