Sorry I took all the breakroom biscotti, dunked it in all the coffee,
and puked in all your sensible closed-toe shoes but not
as sorry as I am about offices. Sorry I cannot go to meetings
and pretend it’s not the same as chewing polished nails,
as cosigning on a grimace to ruin my delightful face. Sorry
white wine and Thin Mints don’t go together but not sorry I tried.
I am sorry I tried to live in the South. Sorry I kissed a white boy who
lived in a mini-mansion and thought he was discriminated against.
Sorry I stayed until I thought he’d kill me. Sorry I kissed a lot of boys
who tasted like American Spirits. Sorry I’m not very high spirited.
Sorry I don’t smoke, never have a lighter or a loosie but pretend
to check my purse when strangers ask. Sorry I don’t know how
to ask for things from strangers. Sorry I won’t spare a dollar for
your worthy crowdfunding campaign. I am sorry about capitalism.
I am sorry I don’t know what to say when my uncle calls from prison
but share listicles with mass incarceration stats on Facebook.
I am sorry I have called things prisons that aren’t: my parents’ house,
cubicles, dentist offices, skinny jeans. Sorry I left my family
for lives that barely tucked me in, never left any stew on the stove,
the kind of people who threw away leftovers. Sorry I sat at a bar
with my brother and only nodded when he said abandoned.
Sorry I’m not equipped for most jobs. I am so sorry for my loss.