One Vasaris of Twenty Eleven

No no no no no no no no no. There it was, quivering in the back of my mind, screaming at me internally, "Fuck things up! Fuck things up!" And there I am, refusing, saying, "I won't say it this time. I'm jinxing it." And then what did I go and do? I screwed up. I did. I know.

You're right; I regret it. With every string of my being I wish I could tear apart time and take it all back. Take it all back. I can't accept myself for this.

Did I not know risk? I knew risk. That when the less conservative, slightly more arrogant me was exposed, that this could happen. Did happen. Fuck.

Everything is wrong. I messed up. I can't tell anyone. I'm breaking. Fighting. Drowning. -Don't cry. Don't cry- And the worst part is, there the end. That's it. I say it, and it's over. Something I want. Something I crave. Oh, here come tears.

I gave you everything. My heart, especially. And look at me. There is no probation for this. I am sick and sorry.

"Should've said no. Should've gone home. Should've thought twice for [I] let it all go."

And there goes the one thing I stood for.

The worst part is that you won't forgive me and you won't ever speak to me again. And I wish I could take it back.

I am dirt; please kick me in the face.

'Bleeders don't deserve you.
This bitch doesn't either.
And the ocean that covered me,
I spit in it's face.
Personal insult.'