My forgiveness is not gentle

My forgiveness is not gentle —

it does not bloom, it does not heal,

and it is most certainly not for myself

more than it is for my trespassers.

My forgiveness is not soft —

I’ve always imagined that absolution

feels like suede between fingers,

or like honey flowing over smooth rock,

but my forgiveness feels like too-shiny gift wrapping paper

held in sweaty palms at a seventh birthday party;

it is not a grown up emotion for me —

my forgiveness is a petulant child,

forced to see logic, to acknowledge reason,

to realize that my anger is baseless,

or futile, or...or...

(I don’t care, I just want to be angry,

may I please have that luxury?)

My forgiveness is a playground fight

smoothed over by two harried mothers.

Now it’s singing happy birthday, off-key,

to that one kid (who was wrong!), nodding slightly to its own faults, sulking over too-sweet cake.

My forgiveness is crushed flowers

and dirty jeans and sullenness --

what can you do? It's all I've got.

[Previous feedbacks:

https://www.reddit.com/r/OCPoetry/comments/8pyyrb/its_time_to_go/

https://www.reddit.com/r/OCPoetry/comments/8mwoqq/ode_to_the_one_who_will_come_to_love_me/?st=JHRC8LQ5&sh=ade7f813]