Confession to my typewriter


The real reason as to why I rarely sit my ass on that short rectangular stool anymore is because I’m scared, perhaps intimidated by you. I’m scared that I don’t have anything concrete; that you’ll end up hating me for making you do something you don’t really want to do. I don’t know how many more empty promises I can make to you. You’re faithful, I’m not. Everyday I come home, you’re there waiting for me, and I lie to myself that I’ll spend time with you once I arrive home. Forgive me, I want to be better