A Letter of Apology

a poem by Roger B. Rueda

To those I have hurt—
like a glass knocked over in my hurry,
spilling more than I meant to,
shattering in places
I never thought to check—
I am sorry.
I am sorry for the times
I failed to understand,
for when I listened but did not hear,
like wind through curtains,
a passing thing,
weightless, insubstantial,
gone before it could settle.
For when I saw but did not truly look—
glancing over your grief
as if it were a street sign
I passed too quickly,
as if your silence was just
another shadow in the room.
I was careless with my words,
like a hand reaching too fast,
knocking the delicate off its shelf.
Reckless with my actions,
like a driver who assumes
the road will always clear for him.
I am sorry for my stubbornness,
for standing my ground
as if I were the only one
who deserved to stand there.
For the moments
I could not step aside,
could not give way,
could not let go—
even when my hands
ached from holding too tight.
I held onto my pride
like an old coat,
mistaking it for warmth
when it was only weight.
Mistaking it for armor
when it was only rust.
I am sorry for the times
I was too much—
a room filled with too many voices,
a radio blaring static.
And for the times I was too little—
a chair left empty,
a name unspoken,
a space you did not know
how to fill.
I am sorry for the tantrums,
for the sharp edge of my voice,
for the way I threw my anger
like a stone into still water,
rippling outward
long after I had forgotten
what made me throw it.
For the times
I let my emotions
crash through doors
instead of knocking,
for when I let my own storms
flood the rooms we shared.
I was foolish.
I was selfish.
I was human—
but in the way a fire is,
devouring all before it
realizes it is alone.
If I could gather the things I broke,
if I could take back the things I said,
if I could mend what I have damaged,
I would.
But time does not run backward,
and apologies are not erasers,
only offerings.
So this is mine—
a small thing, perhaps.
But honest.
And I hope,
in some way,
enough.