Late.
You're too late.
Too late
To stop what you inadvertently caused
Too late to apologise.

Too late to go back,
Too late to reverse
The damage you caused.
To him.
To me.

Late.
You're too late.
Too late to say sorry.
Too late to be sorry.
Too late.

You're just too late.
Don't be sorry.
He never wanted you to be sorry.
He just wanted you to notice him.
To acknowledge him.

Not to ignore him
Bash him
degrade him every time
Every time he comes to you
And asks for a second chance.

He is one of us.
He was one of us.
And you should live forever
In guilt
Of your sins.

Sorry doesn't cut it does it?
But it does.

It cuts into my skin, leaving trails of red,
Of crimson, of burgundy
Of a shameful, deep red.

I'm sorry, but you don't understand, do you?
You never do.

The rope feels inviting against my neck.
Oh how it fits my head!
Its forgiving roughness hugs my throat,
And I can't help but croak:

I'm sorry.

I'm sorry that you were never here to help me;
I'm sorry that I never felt happy;
I'm sorry that you caused me to do this
To me, to myself.

Sorry doesn't cut it, does it?

Now, you feel sorry.
You cry those ugly tears of shame.
Tears that had pooled around my eyes
And grew, day by day.

You're sorry.

But sorry doesn't cut it, does it?

I'm already gone;
And you're here to stay;
With your sins of hate
And your late apology.

Sorry doesn't cut it.