I Ruined It
I don’t know how to apologize
without sounding like I’m asking for mercy,
so I’ll just say it plain
I ruined it.
Not all at once.
Not loudly.
I ruined it the way water ruins stone
slow, patient,
convinced it had time.
I took something fragile you handed me
your trust,
warm and breathing,
still learning my name
and I treated it like it would survive anything
just because it survived me before.
That’s on me.
I said I cared,
and I did
but care means nothing
if your hands keep shaking
after I’ve touched the truth.
I promised safety
with a mouth full of good intentions
and then let my fear drive anyway.
I let my patterns speak louder than my words.
I let silence finish sentences
I should have stopped.
You believed in the version of me
I wanted to be.
I introduced him first.
Let him shake your hand.
Let him earn your hope.
Then I showed up late
as myself.
I broke something sacred
not with cruelty,
but with carelessness,
which somehow feels worse.
I watched disappointment settle in your eyes
like dust on furniture
no one lives with anymore.
I felt the moment your trust realized
it wasn’t safe to stand upright around me.
And I wish I could say
I didn’t see it happening
but I did.
I just didn’t stop myself.
That’s the part that haunts me.
I’m sorry for every time
you had to lower your expectations
just to stay.
Sorry for making you doubt your judgment
when the only thing wrong
was me not being ready for what you gave.
I’m sorry I turned your faith
into something heavy.
Sorry I became a lesson
instead of a partner.
Sorry that loving me
started to feel like work.
I know apologies don’t rebuild trust.
They don’t rewind moments
or unbreak what cracked quietly.
But I need you to know
I see the damage clearly now.
I carry it.
I don’t excuse it.
I don’t ask you to hold it with me.
I just wanted you to hear it
without defenses,
without performance
from someone who knows
he was a disappointment
and finally stopped pretending otherwise.
I am sorry
for ruining everything.
