Don't give up on me now. I'm sorry. I guess that's an odd thing to say. Because isn't that what I'm doing? Giving up?

You told me I wrote that poem because I was afraid of dealing with myself. And I used my mom as an excuse, accusing her of not appreciating or accepting me, when I should have been saying those words into a mirror.

It's hard to be disappointed when what you expected turns out to be true.

That's why you did it. You wanted your world to collapse around you. You wanted everything to get as dark as possible.

My heart and my trust were in the process of collapsing. And that collapse created a vacuum in my chest.

I can't. You can't rewrite the past.

Half of them kept repeating my name, trying to get it right, while the other half laughed. But they were harmless. Fun drunks make a nice addition to any party: Not looking to fight. Not looking to score. Just looking to get drunk and laugh. I remember those guys. Like the mascots of the party. "Clay! Whatcha doon here? Bah-ha-ha-ha!