A poem by P. L. Munn
The dream of coming home to you
is a dead dream, and it’s been dead
for quite some time. I am who I am,
but I am also who I was. Improved?
Yes, but I haven’t forgotten who I was,
and I live with that every day. I won’t
apologize for the mistakes I’ve made
because those mistakes helped me
become who I am. Why should I feel
sorry for doing what made me who I
am today? Why live under the chance
that I could have been someone else
had I not made those mistakes? You
are a ghost to me these days, who
comes to me late at night, on my
sleepless nights, where I stay awake
and ramble on and on and on and on
and on about you, and those days
are few and far between. Buckshot,
missing the target I’ve locked on to,
but spreading about everywhere.
For the stings of injuries dealt to me,
I also dealt to you several injuries.
Should I be forgiven? Probably not.
Do I forgive myself? Never. That’s
not the point. The point is that we
are who we are, and I don’t know
you anymore, but I know myself
more than I ever did before. So,
when I die, don’t grieve. Just lay a
half-empty pack of Pall Malls and
a bottle of Wild Turkey and a copy
of “Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage” atop
my corpse. And I give you permission
to drink out of my skull when I’m dead,
as long as you believe that I never in
my life meant to hurt anyone, ever.