I’m sorry that your first love made you feel higher than the vodka you tried at thirteen when I thought I knew you better. I’m sorry that I learned to hate him more than the girl who hit me so hard that my ears rang louder than your laughter. I’m sorry it didn’t work out, and that he deserved so much better than you. I’m sorry my friend of eight years told you I was mad when I wasn’t. I’m sorry I believed her shifting eyes that wouldn’t meet my own and took her fragility as an apology. I’m sorry I became close to people that care about me. I’m sorry I left homecoming crying because I couldn’t handle the noise and went home and threw up. I’m sorry I gave up because I thought you were happier without me. I’m sorry your father is a stranger and your mother married a man that you don’t even know. I’m sorry you don’t know Hemingway. I’m sorry I knew you’d fail out of biology. I’m sorry that you don’t know how to spell “writer” and that I am one. I’m sorry I’ve taken all the blame and let you walk free of the chains that drug me down for a year while I did nothing but wonder what I had done wrong. I’m sorry you never got to see me cry, but I’m so proud you get to see I’m unbroken.
Ally Wharton is sixteen years old and currently resides in Charles Town, West Virginia. She spends much of her time reading, writing, or furthering her obsession with F. Scott Fitzgerald and Ernest Hemingway. You can find her on Twitter @ally_wharton.