Your Apology Does Not Make Amends
You say you’re sorry
as if the word itself were holy,
as if a syllable could scrub the blood
from what you chose to break.
But sorry is not salvation.
It’s a sound—soft, fleeting—
a smoke signal from a house still burning.
And I am the one inside it.
You hand me language like a bandage
and call it closure.
But closure requires repair,
and your hands are still clean.
You want forgiveness to be immediate,
efficient,
transactional—
as if my healing were an invoice
you could settle with speech.
But remorse is not redemption.
It’s only the door.
Amends is the walk through it—
the slow, humbling labour of rebuilding
what your carelessness dismantled.
You mistake discomfort for penance.
You think guilt is the price.
But guilt is easy;
it lets you cry without changing.
Amends costs more.
It asks for ego. For effort. For proof.
So keep your apology.
I’ve heard enough pretty grief.
Show me you know the shape of what you broke.
Show me you’ve learned to hold things gently.
Show me the work.
Until then,
your words are just echoes
in the mouth of an empty room—
and I am done sweeping up
what you still refuse to see.
Keep My Words Alive
If this poem has stayed with you, you can help keep my words alive or explore more of my work. Every bit of support helps carry the stories forward.
Where words meet morning light
Begin each day with something beautiful
Every morning at 7:11AM, I send a poem — sometimes soft, sometimes devastating, always true.
💚 Subscribe now to read and breathe and feel along with me 💚
Poetry Anthologies by Britt Wolfe
