I'm sorry

I'm sorry for what

My country is doing

For what we seem to think

Is ok

I'm sorry for how

My president is acting

And how he seems to think

He owns you

I'm sorry that

If I hand you my heart

My heart made of glass

Don't shatter it

Don't have the shards

Splay across the ground

Don't hand it to someone else

To crush it

Beneath their fingers

But if it does

The brush

Covered in the black ink

Swiped at my eyelashes

Made its mark

On my face

At least

That's what it used to do

Now it sits quietly

In its spot

Far away from reach