Sometimes I wonder if in my old age,
I will be remembering these nights.

Not the nights I cry, nor the nights I smile.
The nights where I stare. Melancholy.

The nights where Faith had ****** my memories.
The nights where Katriana had dashed my hopes.
And the nights where Jami gave me reason to not blow my brains out.

But not really. They all just, they are memories.
Except maybe Jami, she might be a thing.

But the pain I feel is not a memory.
It's right here, still burning.

And I don't know what to do, except, just. Force myself to breathe.
Force myself to keep pumping blood.
Force myself to remember that people aren't intrinsically bad.

They just, **** up and love somebody else and **** up at that too.
And **** me. **** me for having these thoughts.
Who was I to enter these women's lives. A poser. A stalker.
A creep.