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I'm Sorry, Mom (John Chenvert - Napoleonville, LA)



I’m sorry, Mom,
for the days I stay buried beneath my sheets,
while sunlight begs at my window
and your voice echoes down empty halls of memory.
You gave me all the light you had left—
but I was born with shadows in my bones.

I’m sorry the night light of your love
no longer keeps the monsters at bay.
They’ve learned my name,
they sleep beside me,
they wear my face when I look in the mirror.

You fought so hard to raise me in peace,
to silence the screams you swallowed for years.
But I inherited more than your eyes,
more than your soft hands a
nd fragile hopes—
I carry your ghosts like heirlooms
I never asked for but can’t let go.

I know you dreamed of more for me—
a life where laughter comes easier
than breathing through grief.
But drinking the pain away
only makes me thirsty
for the last handful of dirt dropped on my casket.
I sip sorrow from cracked glasses,
searching for something that feels like escape
but always tastes like drowning.

I’m sorry I couldn’t always be the son
you believed you were building.
Some nights, I try to climb out of this hurt
just to sit beside you at the table
and pretend I’m whole for a while.
But the silence between us sometimes
says more than I ever could.

Still, even in my darkest hour,
I know you loved me through every storm,
even the ones I made myself.
And though I’m worn and wandering,
I’m still your boy,
trying to find my way back
to the warmth you gave me
before the cold took hold.

I’m sorry, Mom—
but I’m still fighting.
Maybe one day
that will be enough.

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