“I swear he changed”

I believe you.

But neither of us can alter the past.

I’ve become a flower that had wilted into itself:

Shoulders always tense and curled up,

Always afraid, always nervous, always remembering.

It’s hard to bring a withering flower back to life.

“Try giving him another chance, he’s sorry.”

I hope that’s true.

But I’m not obligated to give more chances, no matter how sorry.

At a certain point it stops feeling like giving chances of redemption

At a certain point it feels like giving bullets when he missed the first time.

I’ve worked hard for this anger.

I don’t care if they’ve changed. I don’t care if they’re sorry.

It’s not fair is it?
It’s not fair
that I’m the collateral damage

to their becoming human.