Mierda.

I wanted to write for you again.
I wanted to once more plea with a vast audience of inconsequential souls,
in the vain hope that you might be reading.
I wanted to again endeavour to explain
how I tore apart my world
laying waste to all that mattered
and came around too late.
I wanted to offer you lies.
I’m better.
I’m stable.
I’m different.

This was a bad idea.
But it stopped me crawling to your doorstep.

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