I Accept Your Apology

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Young Adult  |  House: Books For Teens
Sometimes the words we say do not express what we truly feel, and conversely, the words we say have the ability to portray our feelings exactly, but our feelings are the ones incapable of self-expression. Apologies are like that, and sometimes they are like this.

Submitted: February 16, 2020

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Submitted: February 16, 2020

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I accept your apology. Every syllable, every vowel, every square inch of carbon dioxide it produced. I accept the way your tongue moved around the words, the easy ones, like 'sorry,' and 'so.' The short ones, like 'she' and 'you' and 'I' and 'your brother.' The tricky ones, like 'separating,' and 'lying.' The ones you don't use anymore, like 'us' and 'we.' I accept that you are not willing to fix things. I accept that when it rains, it pours and that you will always insist on keeping the umbrella above your own head because you are selfish. I accept that you are not willing to work things out, that they can never be worked out, because of you. I accept that you would and will rather die than admit to it. I accept that this is just how things are, how they were, and that you have not bothered until now to tell me.

I accept that you've lied to me for fourteen years about those business meetings. I accept that you continue to lie to me, to her, to my brother; to us. I accept that you've decided you do not want to be a part of 'us' anymore. I accept that you never were a part of us, not in the way I had assumed, imagined, taken for granted. I accept that you have created different versions of the truth for me, for her, for him, for the lady at those 'business meetings,' and for yourself. I accept that at the end of the day, everything was for yourself, all along. 

 

Oxford Dictionary defines accept as a verb; to take upon oneself (a responsibility or liability); acknowledge. Resignation, in other words. 

I resign to the fact that you are leaving my life; forever. That you stand here, in your shoes that I stood on when I danced with you, and your shirt that I wore as a nightgown when I had the flu; with your briefcase that my brother used to carry around pretending to go to work, and your ball cap that I pulled the stuffed bunny out of, pretending to be a magician. It is not with anger or hurt or sadness or confusion or stoicism that I stand here before you, hearing you out, you and your lies and your backstabbing and your selfishness and betrayal, you to whom I have given a thousand chances, but with bitter, steadfast, pursed-lipped acceptance.

I accept your apology, but I do not forgive you. 

 

 


© Copyright 2020 Ava Rose Weisberg. All rights reserved.

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