When I mess up, and lord knows I mess up, all I want to do is unzip my skin. My mistake envelops me, creating a membrane of someone else–someone who isn’t a good friend, someone who hurts others.

When I mess up, I confront my mistakes. I lay myself out, raw, unzipped, uncovered, unprotected. I just want the five feet of apology between us to be genuine.

“I did something wrong. I wish I could make it right, and I can’t, but I hope you can forgive me in time.” That’s what I said to her, and that’s all I could say, because I didn’t expect forgiveness.

An apology is how I verbally hold my head in my hands and show how desperately I ache for a redo button to fix what I’ve done. “I’m sorry” is my promise that I grieve for both the loss of you and of the friend I thought I was.

“I’m so sorry” couldn’t fix it. Nothing could have fixed it.

It was like watching a zipper break and irreparably split apart: all the pieces are there, but they no longer fit together the way they used to.

Adapted from “Unzipped,” published October 28, 2014.

Welcome to Microvember, my take on NaBloPoMo. Each day this month I’ll be posting microfiction, short vignettes, or poetry, accompanied by photography. See more Microvember posts here.