Come over. Brush your teeth in my old hockey jersey, tell me if it feels right and I will see if I don’t mind it.
Go home, sleep on it, see if your bed feels cold or your shirts feel too new, too clean and kept to yourself.
I will try and see if I have the space to share.
You.
My shirts.
My warmth.
My toothpaste.
A drawer.
A hanger for that dress you’ll wear.
Me.
(Source: flores-mortas, via marshallh)
I was informed how much I messed up.
To tell the truth, this was a moment where I did nothing wrong, yet I feel more guilty about messing up because I failed to realize how someone could see my actions as harmful.
I cannot, and should not speak about mistakes I’ve made, and yet I find that once again I am stuck with this overwhelming regret for something I doubt I will ever feel less accountable and sorry for, even in twenty years.
I still feel bad about throwing mud in a kids eye in first grade, even though he flung a pile at me first, and was pushed from behind by that horrible nuisance kev-wait.
No.
I do things, and I regret them.
That is my task and my burden.
But why?
