Second Parter

I apologize to, and absolve myself for what I turned that town into.
I let everything go so awry, and nothing has had such a negative connotation. I cringe picturing its roads, wince at the stories I lived or wrote there. I do feel gratitude for the abundant awareness, for the fragility of my comfortability. Knowing so, so well that death by this own hand, it's merely two-something hours from where I am now. I screwed it up, blew it all up, blew it all off. It turns my stomach, with its lurid history, and consuming quick sand everything. All covered in rust, and ashes, and scarred over. Overwrought with miserable familiarity, that I am constantly guilty for feeling. I want to enjoy it, put those ghosts to rest, pull those skeletons out, bare the wounds. (I want to recall the good parts.) But I do not have to feel sorry any more, not for anyone, not to myself. I enter its border and the weight of every mistake made crushes my soul, I don't owe it to anyone to relish in that pity. It still exists, of course everything does, but doesn't mean I have to live in it, just as the city.

Nothing stays how it is forever, not even a memory.

[Lastly, I am simply trying to like myself, it's so fucking difficult.]