Apologies for the Suffering

I tried to apologize
For the molasses that ran through my brain
Where the lightning-laced lemonade should be.
I insisted that it would thin out eventually,
Maybe not into saccharine yellow happiness,
But at least into the will to put on some slippers
And shuffle down to breakfast.
But in the back of my head,
I knew I was lying.
You’re either a breakfast person or you’re not—
Seafoam candies can only mask so much.
The one thing that could cut through
The numbed-out blur in front of me
Was the razor blade she kept
Tucked in her cheek for special occasions—
Like this Tuesday afternoon.
She pressed it harder than anyone I knew,
Hitting a tender layer far below,
Hot salt water flooding to the surface.
She refused to apologize
For her self-righteous pressure,
Instead swilling coffee & popping
Orange NSAIDs—
For the headache my head gave her.
I vomited contrition.
I promised it would all look normal soon.
No one chooses
Life in the molasses fog,
But they always end up in salty sackcloth,
Apologizing for their zip code.