I don’t have many,
but if I could take some back,
I would never have gone to that party
and I would never have stopped writing back.
Late in the night these days,
when I think of what occurred back then,
how I said nothing about it,
I can’t help but cry.
The same reaction happens
when I remember how broken I felt inside
as I’d let myself get drunk and high.
Nearly every night for weeks.
The way I pushed you out,
the way I said goodbye,
the way I curled up in that room
and prayed to something that I’d die.
I didn’t like being sick.
I hated the emptiness.
The loneliness that consumed me.
I shouldn’t have reacted that way.
I just want to wake up tomorrow,
and forget these things.
