Crumbled ghosts and tall grass grow where once my life was. Where I mowed the lawn. Where I made promises. My dog looked for me, my wife sat crying (so many nights, then off to bed, alone), my step children weren't as old enough as I thought. The garden walls tumbled down, the grape vines went untended. The gutters filled with leaves and summer dried the deck until nails popped up. I stab pain at those who loved me once, my dog later died, wondering if I'd show up again. I am selfish, deserving of what I give. I am unforgivable. What I build from here cannot be trusted. I promise only lies, achieve only failure. I drive by homes I will never be able to own again. I see places where people live, have lived, know they'll always be. Towns where people who belong there live. I drive right through, just passing through. I am a bruise, blood between the cells, purple, then blue, then red, then jaundiced. I am sorry, to those who knew me, sorry that you did. Sorry I let myself pretend that I was not myself. I am sorry that it will happen again. I forgive myself, forget myself, and build for myself something else to throw away.