i'm sorry.

from my blankets, to my sheets
to my own skin
i've left this stain of pure neglect
rotted shades of green and gray that run so deep
and now it seems

the place you occupied
my love
has succumbed to the same terminal conditions

the place where i held you
i can no longer visit.

from my life
as a sad dysphoric mess, to my wasted death
buried beneath
my own regret

could i have predicted this
could i have prevented
like an oncoming wreck
but i've not found the strength
to move an inch
from the pedal of my disease
accelerate this humiliating process
sever my neck

to end,
or perhaps
encapsulate
this worthlessness.