I am the architect of my own ruin, the ghost haunting the house I burned down with my own hands. I walk through the wreckage of the life I shattered and have the audacity to wonder why it hurts to breathe. My apologies are just pretty words I throw at the cracks in the walls I put there. I looked for love in the arms of people I knew I'd destroy, because destruction is the only language I've ever been fluent in. I am the villain in someone else's healing, the reason they flinch at sudden movements. I don't get to be forgiven just because I'm finally feeling the weight of my own sins. This guilt isn't a punishment, it's a consequence. It's the mirror I finally have to look into without closing my eyes. I am not misunderstood. I am not a victim. I am a man who finally has to learn how to face the fire I started instead of walking away from the smoke.
