I am a man made up of mistakes. They follow me around, circle me as I lay sleeping. Settle upon me, choking me until I wake suffocating from the sheer weight of them – clawing at my throat in the darkness.

The day mumbles past me like a homeless man in the subway, and I walk on; I am a man made up of mistakes, and I do not owe the world my penance. 

She answers just as I raise my fist to knock, falling back a little in surprise. Her face says “Not today.” but I already have my hands cupped around her jaw and my lips pressed to hers. She fills in a few hours before I am back out on the street, flicking my collar up to my ears pretending I can hide from the bite of winter.

I am a man made up of mistakes. I can not know anything now that I didn’t know before, there is no room for growth amongst the cigarette smoke and burning effigies inside my chest. 

They say insanity is doing the same thing over again and expecting a different outcome. So what is sanity? Doing different things and expecting different outcomes every time? Because I am always left with the same ending – the self loathing that is as comfortable as it is numbing.

I am a man made up of mistakes. I am so lonely.

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