I’m sorry I was distant, not just because things were tough.

I’m sorry I wasn’t intimate; you needed human touch.

I’m sorry I let you feel, love was far away.

But let me tell you something, I loved you every fucking day.

I’m sorry for raised voices, even if I thought it right,

I’m sorry I didn’t apologise, and being so uptight.

I’m sorry I couldn’t let shit go, and sorry I shut you out.

I’m sorry I stopped seeing you, when you shone so fucking bright.

But…

I’m not sorry for not being ready to let you go.

I’m not sorry for wanting to try again.

I’m not sorry for still loving you.

I’m not sorry for the 4 years we had.

I’m not sorry for finding this difficult.

Karl

Break-ups are rarely simple, and they’re almost never one-sided.
It’s easy to paint the other person as the villain, especially when hurt and betrayal are involved—but that’s not what I want to do here.

This poem isn’t about justifying or excusing what she did. She made her choices, and they caused pain.
But I made mistakes too. I withdrew, I shut down, I clung to control when what we needed was softness and connection.
This piece is me owning those things—no spin, no excuses. Just honesty. Because if I’m going to tell my story, I want to tell it truthfully, flaws and all.

You’ll notice that the first half of the poem flows with rhythm and rhyme, like a confession or a soft-spoken apology. But partway through, that pattern breaks.
The “I’m not sorry” section is rougher, more direct. That was deliberate.

I didn’t want those lines to rhyme or flow. I wanted them to stand.
Because I won’t apologise for still loving her.
I won’t apologise for trying.
That shift in tone is me planting my feet. It’s a boundary.
It’s saying: Here’s what I got wrong… and here’s what I’ll never feel ashamed of.

You can love someone deeply and still mess up.
You can be the one who was wronged and still have things to apologise for.
And that’s okay. That’s human.

This poem is me saying:
“I saw where I went wrong. And I want to do better.”