Two weeks of loving me, you'll tell me to stop apologizing.

I'll stumble out another, "I'm sorry," before I try to stop.

You'll sweep the floor of our apartment, strands of brown hair

will be found in a mess of crumbs and God knows what else.

I'll wince and you'll say it's fine before my tongue even moves.

Before we go to bed, I'll slip you a side of "I'm sorry" with your nightly tea.

On the walk home, a man jogging past me slams into my shoulder.

His fault. Not mine.

But I'm still convinced that my clumsy feet took me towards him.

I'll turn around to whisper an, "Excuse me, I'm-" but it's too late.

When the sales woman mumbles out the total,

I'll say, "Sorry, what was that?"

like it's my fault her mouth wouldn't move along with the words she's spitting out.

When someone comes over unexpectedly,

I'll run my fingers through my hair and straighten my shirt.

"I look horrible, sorry."

I mean how dare I lay at home in sweatpants with no makeup.

You'd think "I'm sorry were my first two words as an infant.

You'd think "I'm sorry" is a phrase that has lost all meaning

But it hasn't.

I'm not just apologizing for what I did or didn't do.

I'm apologizing for my existence.

I guess that's what I do.

I exist and beg to be forgiven

. I am a problem, a mistake, in the way, always too late,

need an excuse, a burden, an annoyance.

I'm sorry.