I’m sorry all you ever hear about from me is books.
I’m sorry my scope of the world is so small and yet so large at the same time.
I’m sorry I annoy you because my life consists of fake people.
I’m sorry I can’t have a real life right now; you have no idea how sorry.
But really, it’s your fault.
You were the one who locked me away, who made me like this.
You were the one who made me too scared to set my feet in the real world.
I had chances to change, to get out, but when they came, I didn’t want them.
Who wants what they don’t know, what will end up hurting them?
But when I finally wanted out, all my chances were gone, severed by this barrier I’ve known all my life.
So maybe it’s my fault, but you were the one who taught me to be this way.
I’m sorry I get rebellious.
I’m sorry I am what I am.
I’m sorry I long for freedom and adventure because I’ve never known it.
I’m sorry you hate me because of who you made me.
I’m sorry this is the way I cope with life, but remember, it all comes back to this:
This is what you made me, like it or not, and these are the scars that you inflicted upon me.
I’m sorry. Actually, I’m not.