Dear Ma'am,
a poem.

I’m sorry for your son, he’s a real piece of shit.
It hurts feeling born to suffer,
I’m sure you did your best.
I wasn’t there to see you cry but I’ve lived vicariously through your tears
although I was weeping long before it all started for you.

Ma’am, I hope this doesn’t come off as a slap to your face
because I know you’ve endured plenty.
I want to weep for you because you’ve lost something more than I have.
All of this is bittersweet. And tragic.

I once told your son in another life we could’ve been friends,
if only he hadn’t taken such a senseless turn
that drove me into a ditch and left me for dead.
I actually held your son’s hand and prayed he was different.
It hurts that you have to go through this.

In another life we could’ve been friends, Ma’am,
I’d do anything to send you flowers and pay you visits,
look into the eyes that birthed my killer and feel love.