Regrets at 2 AM

And you never really meet someone and think that hey, wait, they’re completely going to fuck up your entire life. You never really look at a stranger and think that maybe, maybe they’ll change everything you thought you knew at all. You don’t look at a person and think that they’ll probably dig their claws into those hollow little emotions you’ve never felt before and force them up your throat like food poisoning. These shitty little sentiments you didn’t even think you could feel. There’s no warning or anything like that, no little sign to say hey, maybe you wanna re-think this one. Just one day you’re a person, and then suddenly, you’re sitting on a park bench crying your eyes out at 2 AM in the morning with a black eye and throw up on your shirt like the little fucking asshole you’ve become.

You don’t look at a person and think, hey, they’re going to completely destroy your life.

But that’s exactly what they do.

And fuck me if someone could’ve given me any warning when I met that little faggot Luke.

And fuck me if when this skinny little pole of a person dumped his ass beside me and grinned up at me like he knew the dirtiest thought that ever crossed my mind, if anything at all told me to maybe walk away from the situation.

But that’s the thing. It’s always like a damn freight-train to the face. No one’s going to tap on your shoulder and give you a little bit of advice to maybe not talk to that weird kid whose eyes were the colour of Satan’s bloodied lips. No one’s going to give you that sceptical, teeth-sucking look that’s screaming, hey, you’re gonna regret this.

You’re completely on your own with these kinds of things. And it’s pretty obvious that you can’t do anything to stop the shit-storm that will become your life because look at you, you can barely even cross the street without getting hit. You can’t even make your own parents proud. How the hell are you supposed to know that this grinning little maniac who’s brushing his fingers against yours, who’s whispering these strange little syllables passed your eardrum, he’s a walking, talking, breathing catastrophe?

You don’t.

And I didn’t. And then you look into the mirror and you see that person staring back at you, that one that’s always been there waiting for you to visit again no matter what's happened in your life, and you can’t even recognise them at all anymore. It's you and you know it's you but that person is a complete stranger. Because those eyes and that face and those tears and this bastard of a person- when the fuck did that become me? Because who’s this little shit that’s completely devoured my reflection?

One day, you know yourself. And then you meet this little faggot Luke. And then you have no idea at all anymore.

And fuck me if I had any idea, because I didn’t, but you never really do when you meet those kinds of people.