An Apology Poem

I was mean once.

I was seventeen, and he was younger and overweight.

My friends teased him;

I never did, though, I laughed, 

Ignoring the cruelty in their comments,

Thinking,

My friends are so clever.

We treated him like a bad film

--A waste of time and space--

And like rotten tomatoes

We hurled our disgusted looks,

Annoyed that we were so much better.

I was silent,

Handing out sympathetic smiles in secret.

I was a coward.

I cowered behind the wall of acceptance and 

I slept well at night and

I never told him he was okay and 

I never told him anything.

He died that year.

We thought we killed him.

We thought we made him want to die because

We shut him down again and again and

We never gave him a chance, 

Just laughed like the monsters we were and 

I became my worst nightmare.

He had a heart attack.

We were relieved.

It wasn’t suicide.

I hated myself.

His funeral was solemn and it was small and

My friends snickered at all the people wearing jeans and

Tank tops too tight and

Still I kept quiet.

I met his family and

I stood by his casket and

I pretended to be more upset than I was because

I didn’t even know him.

We all moved on with our lives as if we have never stared at death

And I forgot about this boy

Until I was twenty-four

And someone told me I was mean.

“I am the nicest person!” I protested.

But what is nice?

Besides

Clasp your hands in your lap and

Mind your P’s and Q’s and 

Tip your waitress.

I may be nice, but

My laughter is a virus, and

My silence is a white collar criminal.

I don’t want to be mean,

And I don’t want to be this socially acceptable, faint-of-heart, two-faced, egocentric, self-justifying, insincere, ignorant, mousy, yellow

Nice.

I want to be brave

And humble

And noble;

The kind of person who asks for forgiveness, and

Does not tolerate wickedness, and

Respects humanity enough to open my mouth

Just so someone knows they are not alone,

Just so someone no longer has to feel cold.

I never want to feel responsible for someone’s heart attack.

When I die

I hope people say, “She made me feel less alone”

“She surprised me with coffee once”

“She never laughed at the expense of others”

“She made me feel good about myself”

“She helped me fall in love with being alive.”

And wear whatever the fuck you want to my funeral. 

Wear black, wear blue, wear denim, wear plaid, wear red lipstick and your best bra, wear flip flops, don’t shave, wear a hat, wear what you slept in, wear your favorite tee shirt

I don’t care.

And if someone says something, open your mouth,

And walk out knowing that you stared at death

And you didn’t pretend.

To that boy I knew for less than a year

Please accept my apology.

To everyone I have ever laughed at

Please hear my confession.

And to all who are listening, may this be a promise

That I will try

To rise above silence