Lo siento. Demasiado tarde.

My first apology was the offer of a single chocolate treat from a bag of Milky Stars,
But you didn't take it, because obviously it was doused in Cyanide.

We sat on the swings, bark underneath our toes because we liked to go barefoot,
I tried again to apologise by playing an innocent game of footsie with you.
Your excuse?
"I don't want to break your bones."

I burned, "Lo siento" into your maths book - the one lesson we have apart - with one of your cigarettes under the cherry blossom tree.
Turned out you lost your Spanish to English dictionary.
You never did pay attention in class.

We stared at each other in the night, your deep eyes staring into my dry eyes,
You were filled with red hate.
"Lo siento. Lo siento."
"Communication failure." You whispered, mimicking a dialling tone.

In the morning, after you'd kissed my elbows and touched my every little bit of skin,
When we ached and our lips were swollen, I whispered, "I'm sorry."
The shower was too loud and over the sound of your red raw scrubbing nothing got through.
We were between sound proof glass and there was no way of scratching through.

"I'MFUCKINGSORRY." Delved like tiny motes in my chest, surrounding the castle that was you.
I stood at your door in the pouring rain, blood running down my knees and mixing into my toes.
The words bled through my t-shirt, like when I shoved fags in your maths book.


"Demasiado tarde." You said, leaning against the door frame, that battered Spanish to English dictionary in your hands. "Too late."