The truth of the matter is that I am trying madly,
So desperately, to outrun myself.
To outrun the terribleness of my disposition.
To learn to numb the heart,
And try not to believe in things anymore.
And by that folly,
I have broken so many things.
And now there is nothing left,
But to watch everything crumble,
And try to forget,
With childish recklessness,
That I had let it happen.
For the fault is mine,
Or maybe it is that we are wicked people,
Tormented by such terrible midnight longings,
And the creases of sheets,
And the absence of you in all I see.
-

*I am so sorry.