This room has never felt as huge as I sit in the centre of the plastic wannabe wood covered floors, my knees pulled up to my chin as I try to collapse into myself. All I can do is think now, my prose that constantly boast lengthy and intricate lines, simplified to one word: Sorry. I trace the whitewashed walls with empty eyes and paint pictures across it in my head. I paint Pictures of us in autumn shades and I wish that I could change how certain things have happened. What did I ever do to warrant your distrust, to push you so far that you would need to rely only on yourself when you know I’ve given you everything?
If I could, I would do everything right, but I’m only human. I’ll only let you down.
This is all I can think about as I sit and drown in this suffocating room. A room that has grown so large around me that it might as well be called an ocean in the middle of Sidcup.
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