Sorry Not Sorry
I’m sorry I pushed A-7 on the jukebox, R. Kelly’s “Bump n’ Grind,” as a joke and danced up on you (even though I agree that there’s nothing wrong with two consenting adults getting it on). I’m sorry you were on a break from your long-distance girlfriend. I’m sorry I followed you back to the bar bathroom and pulled you into the ladies’ room by the collar of your shirt because I saw it in a movie once (my mind was telling me no, but my body, my body was telling me yes). I’m sorry that it smelled like urine masked with Febreze pellets when we kissed. I’m sorry my tongue tasted like Rumble Mintz—it was on special for the winter holidays, and I was broke. I’m sorry I called you that night when I got home. I’m sorry we stayed up until two–talking, breathing, talking–even though you had to be at work early the next morning.
I’m sorry I’m a shitty beer pong partner. I’m sorry I still owe you ten bucks. I’m sorry I thought a break from your girlfriend (now fiancée) meant I could keep kissing you whenever I felt like it. I’m sorry I chased those beers with sour apple jello shots. I’m sorry I made out with your best friend in your bathroom. I’m sorry I sent your best friend out to look for you after I started puking Pucker-green. I’m sorry for making you leave the party to hold my hair (why were your hands so soft?). I’m sorry I cried, but I always cry when I throw up.
I’m sorry I stole your jacket when we went outside for fresh air. I’m sorry I smoked your last Parliament (a nasty habit). I’m sorry I sent my designated driver home. I’m sorry I fell asleep on your couch. I’m sorry I crawled into your bed when it got too cold or at least, I said it did. I’m sorry I tried to spoon you against your will. I’m sorry I straddled your hips and kissed you. I’m sorry I wasn’t wearing pants, only see-through neon orange underwear and my t-shirt. I’m sorry we kissed more and almost did more than kissing. I’m sorry you’re the one who ended up on the couch in the early hours of the morning, wrapped in your coat because I had your only blanket. I’m sorry I probably (definitely) drooled on your pillow.
I’m sorry my life was so dark that even your tiny Christmas-light heart was a beacon. I’m sorry I was lost and tried to make you into a map.
I’m sorry you had to drive me home in the morning, both of us hung over with the sun piercing the dirt-fogged windshield. I’m sorry you couldn’t look me in the eye, even with sunglasses on. I’m sorry we didn’t say anything—I’m sorry we didn’t even say I’m sorry. I’m sorry I didn’t offer to pay for gas, but I was still broke—broker (more broken).
Amanda Miska lives and writes in Northern Virginia and received her MFA in Creative Writing from American University.