Skip to main content

Would it be too much if..?






I said so many sorrys and forgot what I was apologizing for.



It makes everything better when you take responsibility and mutter the word, sorry. I learnt that very early in life, so I mastered the art of apologizing. I accepted my flaws right from being a terrible cook, (or maybe that's what I've been made to believe since I had to apologise for every pinch of salt that exceeded the cut for her taste buds), to being an awful student who never had perfect grades.

I get scared before presenting myself to be assessed and when a comment is passed about a stray hair strand outside the bun, I apologise for it- Identity crisis? I say sorry for looking below par and being poor at making myself pretty. I said sorry when he walked over me, and apologized to whoever cared to ask for being so gullible.

I said sorry when I tripped and made people ask if I was okay. I said sorry when I choked on water and made everyone worried. I said sorry for not eating a lot and being skinny. I apologized over and over for my unhealthy lack of appetite when she didn't stop talking about it.

I apologized for coming too early, then I apologise for coming right on time. I said sorry for existing, and a lot of more sorrys for making people pity me. A few times I got yelled at for being too soft, and so I apologized even more profusely and cried some more when they let me be. 

I'm so sorry for everything I make myself endure because I don't want to hurt anyone's feelings. I'm sorry I can't get my acts together and cry like a hopeless sissy.

I'm sorry for making you read my apology tale, it just exhausts me sometimes. Tonight, I said sorry before she could further her criticism and stared at my fingers while she told me to do better. I'm sorry I'm not perfect, I'm sorry I fail at being perfect."





-Siyah.

Picture credit:Lexonart


Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

Best in beauty

This is a selfhype rendition It was my birthday a couple of weeks back and I realised that I actually love myself more than I let on. So I'm doing this as a special dedication to the finest girl I've ever set my eyes on out there. Here's a note to myself, filled with words that I'd love to hear from time to time. Words I hope I believe when I tell myself, especially on the bad days.  I miss having a full length mirror here. You can imagine how frustrating it is to have this full package and not be able to stare at it when I walk out of the shower every morning. I went through my gallery earlier today and didn't know when I exclaimed "Omooooo". I'm hella fine and I'm not even capping. If I were a guy, I'd woo myself. Heck, if I were another female, I'd spend a lot of time wondering what my skin care routine is. The beauty routine. And I won't even realise when I'd be like "Girllllll, you're fine af. I want to be under your s...

Hobbies are not free

  I don't want to be anything When I was a little girl, I wanted to become so many things. I wanted to be a journalist one time because Jiire Kola-Kuforiji looked like she was having a swell time reading the news on TV. She looked so confident in the information she was passing to the whole country and boy, did she not look so beautiful? A couple of weeks later, my mom had me on her legs in a bus as I watched the conductor count the money in his hand. A lot of notes. He was probably a millionaire, I thought to myself. Then, I decided that becoming a conductor wasn't going to be a bad idea. I got home and we turned everything we could find into a moving Danfo bus. Shouting "Owo e da" and holding a bunch of paper notes.  One day, I overheard the adults speaking and somewhere along the conversation, I realized I had been an idiot all the while. The real cash was in banking. There was a whole machine that counted money because they had so much money to count in one day! W...

It's the hope that kills

The thoughts in my head are haywire.  My co-worker had a fourth baby last month. I got married a decade before her, yet I have none. The baby's cries irritates me, but I don't get to complain. She tells me everything; too many details. She asks me to borrow her money sometimes, not that I have much to spare, but I can't hold back or I'd be termed the hater.  The baby is just a baby. I can't say if he's beautiful or not; I just get disgusted that she's having it easy. There was another baby today; a little girl, I heard. I should've gone to say hello to the mother, but she's also just another young girl who shouldn't be having babies of her own; she's barely twenty. Yet someway, she had no problem conceiving when she didn't want a child. She should still be in school, but there she sits welcoming well-wishers with no thought as to how she intends to raise the thing she has just birth.  I ask why I'm so unfortunate in this regard. It...