I’m sorry, ma’. I never meant to be this way. I just happen to be. It was never my intention to set the bar so low that me not fucking up is an achievement. And I’m sorry I can’t seem to stop fucking up.
I didn’t tell you about this cause you kissed my hand the other day, and told me how relaxed you felt seeing me the way I am. Imagine how you’d feel if you knew that the same hand you kissed knocked a guy out tonight.
How horrible it would be to see all my hard work dragged into a police car and signed off as another mal-adapted member of society. I got lucky again, but for how long? There’s no promises here. Only regret. And shame. I never deserved you, and you never deserved this. But I’m working on it. I swear.
The drugs are gone. They’re no longer there. That’s a step forward. A leap into a different universe and it’s already exhausting enough, but I just can’t seem to get a fucking grasp on anything. It’s like everything is ticking against me. But maybe I’m the one ticking against everything else.It’s my fault. I’m taking the responsibility.
I kept feeling like you died the other night. All your pain, all our life, everything you ever were wrapped up into all the pain inside me, and I drank it away. I never drank my emotions away before, because I never had them.
I’m sorry. I just want you to see me doing great. Not well. Not good enough. Great. At least before you die. Then I can go back, I can hurt myself again, hurt others, burn every bridge I ever built. But before that, I just want you to see that you weren’t wrong for believing in me. Not for a second.