I can honestly say I have never hated myself to the extent in which I hate myself right now. My self loathing is deeply engraved within my being. The slices and gouges are evident across the canvas of my flesh. I have never hurt the way I hurt tonight. I have never wounded quite so violently. And even the most sincere and bona fide apology will not pry the nails of my nail gun from the consolidated structure of your heart. The actions I carried out I undertook knowingly and willingly. And that alone makes me every bit deserving of this feeling.
So I sit here naked and bleeding in my bath tub, hoping only that my tears will engulf me enough to let me drown. But not a single tear has made it past my breast before dissolving into the breaches of my pores. Death would undoubtedly be easier than facing tomorrow the way I have dug myself stranded tonight. But I know that I am to weak to do anything more than sit here; wishing I could take back everything I’ve done to you. Wishing even perhaps to never have met you in the first place.
Could I go back now and remove every memory you have of me I would. I would do anything to make you feel okay. I treated you unfairly. As if you were only there to use at my disposal. But you are so much more than that. You are everything more than that. And I hope you never forgive me.