what the **** are you supposed to do when the ghosts of 222 reasons plaster themselves to your bedroom walls and fill your head with all the other 222+ reasons it's all your fault?
how does it make any sense that i have to live in the spaces you broke my heart over and over every day and you got to take a train and leave it all behind
i haven't written a poem in years that didn't ask desperate questions or consist of a thousand different apologies, and with that, i ask you "were you ever really sorry?"