The Regressions of a Former Granddaughter

I threw up last night thinking about how I never said that I was sorry,

and that I regretted more than anything in my life not being there when you fell,

when you were in the darkness of a very bright room that never belonged to you,

and I never told you that I forgave you for giving up my rooms,

and her room,

and her perfume,

and the vanity that I dream about sometimes

There was blood in here,

in my mouth,

and all I could think of was that I would always be derivative of you,

and somehow that brought me a single ounce of comfort,

but I didn't want to be comforted,

because I wasn't there to comfort you

Even though we are six feet from this and that,

and from each other,

could you tell me that I was your little girl,

could you hold me on your lap the way you did before I got too old to be cute?

Maybe someday,

they would forgive me,

you could forgive me,

for what I hadn't done for you,

for what I had done to you,

and you would let me ascend 

and amend my ways,

And you would let me push my fist slightly into your stomach,

so I could hear you squeal happily one more time,

and engulf me in your arms

I am so sorry,

so very, very sorry,

that I never said it,

that I never said sorry,

to you.