I'm sorry, kiddo.

A raw reflection on trauma, guilt, and the inner child we leave behind.

Say… glancing at the past, you say?
I tilt my bruised neck the other way.
What greets me there? A ghost, maybe.
Ah… no. That’s me.
God—what did I let him be?
What did I let this world do to me?

The matter at hand—
not just wounds, but brands.
Cries etched deep where silence stands.
Cuts on my thighs,
collapsed desires,
each breath a coal,
each thought a fire.
But who am I to curse the flame,
when I was the one who fed the name?

A deviant mind at the edge of abyss,
chanting madness in a fevered hiss:
"I think, therefore I am!"
"I think, therefore I—damn…
am I just thought in broken skin?
A whisper screaming from within?"

All to bring that child to light,
to honor his soft, unspoken fight.
Or was it fear I’d miss the mark—
leave him alone, scared of the dark?
He never asked for gold or throne,
just warmth and dreams he could call his own.

A room with toys,
a fortress of play,
a bottle of milk
at the end of the day.
A sign from the One
above the skies—
not miracles…
just lullabies.

But now? I’m falling, and fast at that.
No chance to run, no looking back.
I’m halfway down this haunted hall—
Deja vu, like I’ve heard it all.
A whisper, a hoofbeat, a shadow thin...
A horseman? Or just guilt within?

Either way—
I see him still.
He doesn’t cry. He’s oddly still.
His eyes don’t ask for much or more...
Just why I closed that open door.

So here’s my truth, from grown to small:
I’m sorry, kiddo.
I broke the fall.
Not for who you were—so brave, so true—
but for what I did
when I stopped being you.