one of those nights

My hands are smeared with blue pilot pen ink. my fingers smell of smoke. i wrote on the back of that photograph, and the words smudged on to my hands, tattooing them with hate and distress. i burnt the photograph. i watch the memories burn. i wish reality would burn up the same way.

i hate them all. i hate myself too. i feel stupid. i should have known better. i should have known better. there is so much i could have done. if i could turn back time, i could change everything.

am i the only one living with this burden? is he feeling something too? anything? i wonder about that sometimes. does he feel heavy with thoughts of disbelief and disgust at what he did, is he ashamed? if he could tell me that he was living under the enormous shadow of self doubt, constantly reminded of his sins, would he?

back in my room, i'm feeling strangely empty, yet calm. my fingers are still trembling though. my hate, for the moment, seems to have found an outlet. my head isnt spinning anymore. im breathing slower. i dont feel like punching the wall.

i guess im going to curl up into foetal position under my blanket and shut the world out by shutting my eyes. its going to be one of those nights.