Some days I wake up and think,
“Damn, I might be the problem.”

Not in a villain arc kind of way, no. Just in that quiet, disappointing way you forget to reply to someone who loves you.
Or you said you’d change, and didn’t.
Or you left your undried laundry in the wardrobe for three days and now it smells like betrayal.

I’m not evil. Just… inconsistent.
A decent person with terrible timing.
Emotionally available on Thursdays but unreachable on Sundays.
I’ll hype you up, then forget your birthday.
Piece of shit behavior.

But I mean well.
Does that count for anything?
Intentions don’t wash dishes, I know.
Intentions don’t unbreak hearts either.

I’ve hurt people with silence.
Ghosted when I should’ve spoken.
Laughed off feelings that were really mine, because being vulnerable felt like taking off armor in a thunderstorm.

“You’re such a good guy.”
Am I? Or am I just good at saying sorry with conviction?
Good at appearing thoughtful when I’m really just overthinking everything?

I want to be better.
But the version of me in my head is always five steps ahead of the mess I’m still cleaning up.
So I chase him.
This upgraded, healed version of myself that doesn’t flake, doesn’t lie to avoid conflict, doesn’t text “I’m on my way” while still in bed.

Piece of shit, but improving.
That’s the label.
Not perfect.
Not proud.
Just trying.

Because the worst kind of shame is when you disappoint yourself.
When you know better, but didn’t do better.
When you swear it won’t happen again… and then it does.

But here I am.
Not running from it.
Not denying it.
Just holding the mirror and saying,
“Damn. Again?”

And tomorrow, I’ll try again.
Because being a piece of shit today doesn’t mean I have to stay one.