He was sorry yesterday and today
and he will be sorry tomorrow.
He will be certain that I raised the temperature of his blood,
spit his hate over me like like and upside-down prayer.
Bathe even his own children in gray
so they are invisible.
Screeching warning sounds that raise the hairs on my neck like
strings played sideways when blood spills.
Days end will call him into night
and swimming in himself
he will mock my sleeplessness
and press my nose into the pile of virtue gifted by my father.
She always thought she was better than me.
But when morning comes and he finally bleeds tears
and calls to my charity
we will all be in our best dressed and arrive on time.
The Priest will cock his head to me, reminding, while the layety rise and call me blest.
By noon, he will begin again.
I will crave a gentle hand that will never come,
a loving heart that doesn't exist...
I see the dream born on Sunday
I think it might be a spell
to keep me believing...
Sorry for yesterday
Sorry today and tomorrow
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