#birthmark;

Funny how, even if repetition of that word takes up the space between you and I, and my tongue rolls around the syllables effortlessly like a practiced prayer from a sinner looking for redemption, it’s not my first response. But I use it.

Because I Am Sorry is what almost everyone wants to hear even if it is not true. Its gotten to the point of pleasantry and I’ve been fed small talk and manners ever since I was wild and empty and young. I was raised to seek tolerance, generosity, and politeness as my true ideals. Which I do.

However, even then, I’m a selfish, sickeningly honest mind, if not with everyone surrounding me, with myself. And I can’t hide myself from me:

I’m but a lump in my own throat. I’m my own fucking problem and I can’t beat myself at my own game. That’s the issue. It’s not mathematical. It’s not an equation. Y = MX + B = Fuck you in the fucking head. I’m not only the bruises in my face but the bruises deep within—that’s fucking ridiculous, it’s ridiculous, are you listening? I’m made up on ridiculous strings of words to hide the fact I’m gas-o-line.