Sorry Doesn't Cut It

Sorry Doesn't Cut It

Sorry Doesn’t Cut It

My father used to say it with a kind of finality —
a sentence that closed the air between us.
Sorry doesn’t cut it.

Back then I heard punishment.
Now I hear precision.
He wasn’t asking for apology.
He was naming a truth:
words can’t carry what awareness must.

Years later, she said it differently —
Don’t say you’re sorry.
Not sharp, not cruel — just done.
She’d lived enough sorrow to know
pity was another kind of prison.

Between them, a bridge:
his boundary, her sovereignty, my realization.

“Sorry” is the sound of wanting to undo what shaped you.
But the past isn’t waiting for your regret —
it’s waiting for your recognition.

So I don’t say it anymore.
Not out of pride,
but because I’ve learned what cuts it
presence that stays long enough
to turn pity into peace,
and silence into understanding.

Awareness slices cleaner than apology.
It leaves no wound, only light.

 

The Sovenquill

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