I’m sorry for what I said last night, I did not mean it.

I promise I didn’t, I never could, I just don’t seem to think things through. I have butter fingers and wet lips that let knives slip. I don’t believe it, I swear.

I’m sorry that I hurt you, that you got caught up in the blow as I detonated. I’m sorry you were hit in the cross-fire of a fight that never once involved you; you were just the face of it, the propaganda, the motivator. I will decriminalise you and take your place in exile regardless of whether you unlock the door again.

I know I shouldn’t have left. I should’ve stayed there in silence or shouting back, either is better than void. I should’ve yelled my apologies again and again until they were louder than your response attack. We were two smashed bottles, overfilled and burst; yours with anger, mine with mindlessness. I’m sorry.

I’ll excuse myself no longer. I’m sorry for what I said, I hope you can see past it.


I’m sorry for what you said last night; But I’m glad you said it because you meant it.

And maybe you don’t yet realise that at midnight this morning – Screaming at each other, one slightly more accurate smashed glass away from ruining the rest of our lives –  Was the first time in a long time that we’ve been honest with each other.  And maybe you’re not ready to face the reality that I am everything you said I am. That your worst fears about me came true. That I am not enough.

And maybe that’s OK. Because what if none of us are? What if every night spent doting each other to sleep, wrapped in sheets that felt as if they had grown organically around us like petals, protecting the importance of our co-existence, was all just an illusion? An amalgamation of film scenes, love songs and poetry,  projected onto our reality, blinding us to the fact that maybe we’re simply addicted to the concept of what our love represents and not the reality of what our love actually presents.

You apologise, but who am I to be granted the right to subside your guilt with forgiveness? Each bloodthirsty syllable you spoke was handcrafted in a fire that’s been burning deep within you for a long time. You suffered; Suffocating from the smoke and razor blade repressions. Coughing violent truths from a torrid throat. What is there to forgive of someone who has not spoken dishonestly?

You once said that your love is your religion; So then is our relationship not Biblical? Are we not the apostles of the belief that two hearts beating in synchronicity is the only cure for brokenness? Is sex not our salvation? You may curse me in conversation to your friends for denying you the comfort of the illusory Universe that we created from within our bedroom. I will not hold it against you. Do what you must to rationalise and mourn for the death of our love.

..If ever it truly was.

And you will have to excuse yourself again, because there is nothing to see past. No romanticised version of events. No film script. Nothing but decaying petals on torn bed sheets, a doused fire and shards of glass on the living room floor.

And for this you may hate me, but in keeping with our faith, I ask;  ‘Have I now become your enemy for telling you the truth?’

By Lucy Harbron and Lucas Jones