Cut it out, remove the dead tissue from the past. Leave it there on that bed you used to sleep on with her. Burn your fingertips clean of her touch, disappear from the way she remembers you. From the tabs she kept on you.
You've tried to sympathize now that you've done your time, but sympathy from a sinner doesn't mean a thing to an angel.
You've become something without a future or a past, but hated nonetheless. You've become a derelict, waiting for a storm to tear your old walls down.