What I Said Without Hearing It

They brought it up carefully,

like they were handling glass,

and I already knew

from the shape of their face

that I'd said something

I'd been too sober to say

when I was myself.

You said—

and I knew

I didn't want to hear it.

Already certain

it was true.

Already aware

I'd opened my mouth

and let something out

I'd spent months keeping in.

Three weeks ago.

I don't remember.

But they do.

They told me what I said

that night.

My exact words. My exact tone.

The way I looked

when I said it.

They handed it back to me

like a thing I'd lost,

a thing I'd dropped

and didn't know was gone.

I don't drink much now.

Not after I learned

drunk me has a mouth

that tells the truth

like it's a knife.

Drunk me says the thing

sober me spends all week

building walls around.

That night I was loose.

That night I was honest.

That night I said something

so raw, so specific,

that they held onto it.

Carried it. Brought it up

when they thought I should know

what I'd said

when I wasn't paying attention.

I apologized.

Even though I don't remember.

Even though I meant it.

That's the terrible part.

I meant it.

And I had to apologize

for something I don't remember

but absolutely,

completely,

cannot take back.