Amelia James Poetry

An apology so hollow,
even the echo atoned for it—
an apology that crumbled under its own emptiness,
thin as breath, fleeting as smoke.

You stare into your reflection,
but it’s shattered glass, not growth.
Splinters don’t make you stronger—
they just remind you of what broke.

In a room of bright eyes and borrowed faith,
you stand at the front, palms open wide—
as if the cracks in your voice
could paint over the cracks in your character.

This isn’t your testimony.
It’s the wreckage you left behind.
If they ask what you’ve learned,
don’t dare turn my survival into your parable.

Learn to sit in your shame
without hijacking someone else’s heartbreak
and dressing it up as wisdom.

There’s no moral here for you to preach.

No borrowed scars,

no stolen pain.
No turning someone’s survival story
into your redemption song.

If you need a moral, it’s this:
you fucked up.
There’s no redemption arc without accountability.
And your failure?
It belongs to you alone.

-Amelia James