Don’t look at me that way, as if you know all you need to know about me.
Don’t use that word, or those. I don’t care what you think or how you were raised. You’re wrong.
I know, yes, you’re sorry. You didn’t mean to offend. But, please
Don’t you think I know that, too? That you meant well, that you were trying to be polite, that it’s confusing?
Don’t apologize unless you really mean it. Have some respect for yourself, if not for me. Don’t apologize unless it’s a promise to change. If you’re not going to change, don’t pollute the air, and your soul, with lies.
I forgive you. I forgive your trespass as I hope my own trespasses were forgiven. Or will be, someday.
My own ignorance is not so old that it is forgotten. At least half of the bile rising in my throat right now is an echo, a bitter memory of my own inglorious past.
I know, yes, of course, you’ll do better next time, or the next. I know, you promise to keep trying for as many next times as it takes. I know that promise well.
I can see myself in the mirrored reflection of your eyes, I remember too well the confusion, the fear of making a mistake, of doing it wrong. My past mocks me with time worn replays of my own missteps.
No, it’s fine. It’s a payback of sorts, a lesson. I hope your lessons treat you better than mine. I wish you the best, truly.
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