I'm sorry: a slam poem

"I'm sorry." She spoke.
She didn't do anything wrong.
She didn't say anything wrong.
She didn't look at anyone wrong.
It was for what she was about to do next.
She, a broken mess, was walking on a thin wire.
She was walking on shattered glass,
Cutting her feet with every step.
That glass would sometimes jump up and cut her on her thighs.
"I'm sorry." She spoke.
You can barely hear the sadness in it too.
You can barely tell that she is on the verge of breaking.
You can barely tell that she was on the verge of having a full-fledged mental breakdown.
From the dull look in her eyes and the faint whispers from her lips.
No one can tell that she is just barely there.
"I'm sorry." She said.
That I'm sorry was all for the nights she lied in her bed, wondering when she was going to sleep.
That I'm sorry was all for the meals that she had skipped or forgotten to eat.
That I'm sorry was for the fake smiles and the laughter that escaped them.
Some mistake her "I'm sorry" for a cry for help.
To her, they are not that.
Her "I'm sorry" are a battle cry
Because to her, she may or may not go through with the plan of maltreating her body.

a.b.