Forgive Me, Dearest Me

Forgive me, dear big toe. It was never my intention to stub you on the sharp-edged corner of my mother's Acadian wood bed frame.

It's alright, to feel pain is to feel anything at all.

Forgive me, dear pinky toe. It was never my intention to split your keratin-laced nail on the camoflauged stone at Sandy Beach.

It's alright, I will submerge my nub into a hundred more salty, tepid seashores, forging temporary burrows beneath the granulated earth.

Forgive me, dear ankle. It was never my intention to friction such a vile strew of blisters along each crevice and cornice of your curvature while backpacking through the rugged, Canadian wilderness.

That's alright. I will strike my tough, fibrous tissue against the terrains of a hundred more mountainous peaks, meadows, and mud-soaked paths, leaving the landscape forever changed by each persistent footprint.

Forgive me, dear thighs. It was never my intention to loathe and conceal your stretched skin and silver scars with blotched, ivory makeup when I reached pubesence.

Thats alright. My elasticity is constant, nurturing, and adaptable to the shapes I have been, and the shapes I will be.

Forgive me, dear pelvis. It was never my intention on letting his merlot-soaked, unworthy lips trace lines across your sacred borders.

Thats alright. The lips of men do not leave permanent brandings.

Forgive me, dear hands. It was never my intention to hold on so tightly to those who who were pulling away.

Thats alright. I will hold the hands of a lover who does not withdraw, but instead grasps firmly, unhesitatingly, and devotedly.

Forgive me, dear arms. It was never my intention for you to embrace my father's frangible, dying, and cancer-ridden frame before the age of 27.

That's alright. We are intended to embrace.

Forgive me, dear stomach. It was never my intention for you to whisk so violently you expelled your contents upon the phone call of his departure.

That's alright. We are also a vessel for butterflies.

Forgive me, dear lungs. It was never my intention to smother you in the all encompassing venom of the first cigarette, the second cigarette, and the three thousandth cigarette.

That's alright. We still expand, we still contract.

Forgive me, dear liver. It was never my intention to drown you in the amber bliss and eventual anguish of the first drink, the second drink, and the three thousandth drink.

That's alright, I still filter.

Forgive me, dear spine. It was never my intention to hang my head so low I forgot to look at the sky.

That's alright. I will extend to find faces in the clouds, I will flex to search for four-leaf clovers, I will rotate as you dance in the breeze.

Forgive me, dear heart. It was never my intention to shatter you, torture you, deluge you, mislead you, exclude you, oppose you, impose you, or shame you for the depths of your love.

That's alright, to love is to forgive.

Forgive me, dear throat. It was never my intention of silencing your truth for the risk of my reputation. 

That's alright. The truth is the same whether it is screamed from a 23rd floor balconies or whispered into your tear soaked pillow.

Forgive me, dear tongue. It was never my intention to coat you in that mouthful of rotten egg salad.

That's alright. We will lick apples encrusted with candy, lap melted vanilla ice cream off manicured fingernails, slurp fresh pineapple from halved coconuts, and seal envelopes from foreign countries.

Forgive me, dear lips. It was never my intention to habituously chew your soft, rosey flesh into scabby dried apricots.

That's alright. We will lift our corners into coral-coated peachy grins, and pucker soft kisses of vermillion lipstick on the cheeks of babies.

Forgive me, dear nose. It was never my intention to Google "rhinoplasties in my area" after detesting the one thing left that now reminds me of my father 

That's alright. We will find delight in resinous pine trees, fragrant cheeses, oven-baked cookies, and spiced apple cider.

Forgive me, dear eyes. It was never my intention to beam you with the artificial blue light of social media upon waking, while a sun worthy of your attention rises behind sheets of drywall.

That's alright. The sun will rise tomorrow.

Forgive me, dear ears. It was never my intention of wanting to speak so badly I forgot to listen.

That's alright. We can listen tomorrow.

Forgive me, dear hair. It was never my intention of frying your virgin cuticles with drugstore platinum box-dye.

That's alright. We will grow into cascading locks of mousey brown ash, flourishing in crowns made of wild rose and fireweed.

Forgive me, dear head. It was never my intention to dismiss your logic when confronted with a decision.

That's alright. I will analyze your decisions, colour-coating and filing them away at your disposal. Don't forget to consult with the head. 

Forgive me, dearest me. Can I forgive me for the bruises imposed on my toes, the scrapes engraved on my knees, the scars forged on my heart?

Can i forgive me for the mistakes made in bare skin, and for the mistakes I cannot bear to speak of again?

Can I forgive me for the anxious trill in my voice, the self-deprecating sighs in the mirror, the distasteful squeeze of stomach flesh between my fingers?

Can I forgive me for the for the ants I've smothered beneath my shoe, the flowers I've wrenched from the soil, the unnecessary hoard of consumption in my closet?

Can I forgive me for the shaking hands of whiskey mornings, the bathroom door slams of evening contempt, the midnight carpet sprawlings of purposelessness?

Can I forgive me for the selfish longings, the misguided affections, the hollow conversations?

Can I forgive me for the moldy dishes left in the sink.

For the dreams I've left to wither. 

The love that was taken.

The love I took away.

The love I have given.

The love I never received.

Forgive me, dearest me, for asking.

...

I Forgive You.