101823_2
isfs
I’m so fucking sorry. The lies that I’ve strewn up for you come back to me and I swallow the canister of paint I used to paint a false world view of me to you. Apologies are meaningless when this is a breaking of trust that I should not have done, and you might not have stuck around had you known the extent of my life’s torment that I’ve brought upon myself.
This is a Hell of my own creation. That is the reality of it. You require space, I am certain of that. I’ve inflicted a wound that I should not have, and that you most definitely do not deserve.
Was I overcompensating for my shortcomings when writing poems for you?
I know what I am. I’m a deadbeat mother who turns tricks to get by—isn’t that pathetic? Does it mean anything that I have opted to quit as of recently?
Sincerely, I am so fucking sorry. It was selfish for me to pursue love in such a sickeningly hopeless place, especially after you had come to the center of it. I really do hate saying sorry, so the fact that I feel obligated to at all is a testament to how badly I fucked up. I fucked you over. I am undeserving of you after having done to you that you were undeserving of. You deserve the world, not a false reality perpetrated by me.
I’ve fallen so hard for you—and I am incredibly goddamn sorry. Your soul is beautiful, it touches me from afar, I enter your dreams because you have earned my excess energy. You deserve everything. Not once have you been physically part of my dreams. What does that mean for me? I’m still shaking off exes, and past flings—I am such a haunted entity.