Laying here I can't help but think of the despicable things I've done. Living with memories that can't be skewed is new to me. I've always done things I regretted, as we all have, but now it's different. My young misdeeds were still derived from a place of positive intentions. A good person's indiscretions. These new things cannot be undone or sorried away with a handmade card or a week's diligent kindness. I've become a person I despise. Having broken all of my own rules and stepped on my downsliding set of values is worse than never having incepted them in the first place. I am a failure at being good and you can dump all the freshcut flowers you want to on that, but it doesn't change the truth. This didn't happen overnight. I shuffled sideways into the dark and now I will forever reek of these foul cigarette-stream acts of selfishness. I can only try from here to reverse course and reach out for the remnants of who I used to be, hoping that what I grasp at doesn't crumble like dust in my hands. The soft sheen of what's left behind is the the needless reminder that I feel between my fingers as my mouth moves, saying things that are, in retrospect, hypocritical. And still there's this urge to say I'm sorry, but as we both know, that is a phrase meant to make the speaker, not the listener, feel better. I have no right to say I'm sorry. In its place I will say I love of you that which makes me hate what I've become and without this love, this desire to head back up the river, I would die right here and now, regardless of how lovely a day it is or that my dogs are watching me write this.
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