You called me selfish
as if I spit in your face on purpose.
But I had just eaten and you were so quick to question me
so I spoke.
I spoke so loud that church bells echoed back
what almost sounded the same
and a tiny piece of curry came hurling towards your face.
And you,
unflinching and now conspiring
to make sense of what you know was an accident,
now just stand there holding a look on your face
that wants to see blood, like the kind that pours in pumps,
but I’ve already apologized once
so this will have to stay this way.
Both of us just looking at each other and afraid to say a word.


About Sean O'Gorman

Spoken Word poet from Ottawa. View all posts by Sean O'Gorman

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