3:18 AM, Fucked.
Thursday, June 10, 2010
I feel horrible.
I feel like a 5-year old kid who had just gotten caught stealing from the cookie jar.
I feel my face burn when I think of you and how mad you must be at me.
I want to see you, but I just can't bring myself to look at you.
I want to tell you I'm sorry, but I can't because I haven't quite figure out the
I feel my face burn when I think of you and how mad you must be at me.
I want to see you, but I just can't bring myself to look at you.
I want to tell you I'm sorry, but I can't because I haven't quite figure out the
reason why I might be sorry.
I just don't know what i'm doing.
I know you're all ears.
And I know you're sitting there, waiting for me to explain myself.
But that is the whole problem.
I don't have an explanation.
There is no fucking explanation for what I had done.
I just don't know what i'm doing.
I know you're all ears.
And I know you're sitting there, waiting for me to explain myself.
But that is the whole problem.
I don't have an explanation.
There is no fucking explanation for what I had done.
There is no reason for me to do what I did.
I've messed things up again.
I've messed things up again.
Everytime I find a good thing, I give it away.
I just don't have a reason why.
I wish, I fucking wish I could blame it on somebody else.
I just don't have a reason why.
I wish, I fucking wish I could blame it on somebody else.
I wish I could just go on the train, point my finger at some random stranger,
pull you alongside me, and tell you,
"she made me do it".
I can't, can I?
