ANATOMY OF AN APOLOGY

Anatomy of an Apology

I am sorry, I am sorry,
but not for the things you think.
Not for the words I didn’t say,
or the hands I never held.
I am sorry for the way I bent myself,
for the spine I snapped to fit your mold.
I am sorry for how my voice shrank,
for the weight of your silence,
and how I carried it anyway.
I am sorry that I thought love
was something to be earned.

The House at the End of December

The house still hums with quiet ghosts,
the ones we left behind last year.
The winter winds rattle the posts,
but nothing shakes the silence here.

The door still holds our names in dust,
the floorboards whisper where we’ve been.
We wrote our stories into rust,
but never let the ink sink in.

The clocks still tick—so loud, so loud,
as if they mock the time we lost.
Our echoes live within the shroud,
our shadows frozen in the frost.

How to Say Goodbye in Five Syllables

Letters left unread,
folded like a paper swan—
frozen mid-flight, stuck.

Footsteps on the stairs,
soft echoes in hollow halls,
no one’s coming home.

Love, a burning wick,
flickering in an old lamp,
dim, then gone, then dark.

Daughter of Smoke and Glass

She is made of glass, but she does not break,
her edges sharp enough to cut the night.
She swallows fire like it’s thirst she slakes.

They tell her love is something she should take,
a quiet girl should know to hold on tight.
She is made of glass, but she does not break.

They call her stubborn, call her past mistakes,
but she is learning how to stand upright.
She swallows fire like it’s thirst she slakes.

She hums the names of wolves she will not tame,
they howl for her beneath the silver light.
She is made of glass, but she does not break.

She licks the wounds they swore were hers to make,
spits out their lies and smiles at their spite.
She swallows fire like it’s thirst she slakes.

She writes her story, carves it into slate,
turns every scar into a guiding light.
She is made of glass, but she does not break.
She swallows fire like it’s thirst she slakes.

The Sky Split Open the Day You Left

The sky was a bruise that morning,
purple and blue, swollen with rain.
You stood at the door like a question,
waiting for an answer I couldn't give.

I watched the way your hands twitched,
how your mouth held words it wouldn’t speak.
Love is not quiet,
but we made it so.

You left, and the house exhaled.
The walls, once heavy with your voice,
settled into silence.

Outside, the rain began to fall.
The sky was a bruise.
Purple and blue.

Bio-Tanisha is a 14 year old poet from India exploring the intricacies of human interaction and society. Her works includes themes like society, emotions, society, loss etc and have been previously published in The Brussels Review, Blue Marble Magazine, Macrame Literary Journal and many more.When not writing she can be found sketching, reading or baking.