raybear | I've been locked inside your heart-shaped box for weeks.

Dear Courtney,

I shouldn't even try to apologize because there's not enough time or words to adequately redeem myself. I fuck you up, and you fuck me up, and it's part of the charm and appeal and desperation and what was the question again?

I shoot up junk for the same reason I smoke pot, for the same reason I smoke cigarettes, for the same reason I drink beer, for the same reason I drink coffee, for the same reason I go to the movies, for the same reason the fucker across the street watches the same stupid video 30 times with my ugly face. For the same reason you don't think of me anymore.

But that's not true. I know I haunt you, and I'm sorry for that too. I understand what hellhounds sound and feel like, and if I knew a way to let go of your heart I would do so, but right now it sustains me.

I sometimes can't remember how you look. This is why I don't grieve. For fear of forgetting. I'm sure you look better now than you ever have in your entirely life. Or so I've heard. I've even seen it with my own two eyes in the reflection of the train window this morning. Will my image of you ever go away? Should it?

I'm the face of might-have-been and what-will-come. I am not the face of death. That is the myth I am most sorry for promulgating.

I'll grow up soon and leave my coward self behind. I hope you'll still be around. I know you will.

I love you.

All apologies,
Kurt