I wish I wasn't at fault this time, I wish I'd never fucked up. If I was innocent in this I'd be able to retaliate. To hate. To lash out with all I've got. To fight back and hurt as much as I can. To burn whatever I can, so there's nothing left.
Last night I was rounding up all her things, all her presents, letters, anything that reminded me of her. Her paintings, pottery, drawings, clothes, pictures, books, and anything else I could find. I was going to take it to her mom's, but as I'm looking at it, all layed out in front of me, I just wanted to break it. To tear it all up. To make it not exist. To make the memories stop hurting me. But they mean so much to me, it's all I have left. I hate myself for wanting to destroy them.