I’m Sorry

In those wrinkled, sulky eyes,
you quickly detect the sky's teardrops
rather than the speck of persistent light
obscured behind the grey overcast

As I softly, so softly mumble to you,
these words that have grown mold
in my misery-poisoned apple tree

The nature suddenly leaves your skin,
leaving only a white yet bloody tint around your eyes,
As if I had sliced you with a kitchen knife
into halves to quarters to sixteenths
and ripped open every cell in your arms, legs, fingernails - heart

When will you ever be happy?

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