The art piece

It’s something in his tone, I think.

As always my apology is automatic;

rising in my throat but I quell it

at the eleventh second.

He doesn’t apologise,

just studies my face

with a look on his own resembling

distaste.

You’re not that pretty.

I fight the urge to say

I’m sorry.

I know.

Instead I just stand there

mute and wounded,

feeling like a piece of abstract art

hung on a gallery wall

for critiquing.

~~ June Briar Kelsey

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