It Is What It Is

I wish I had known you when they did.

At least I would have had a turn at ruining you, just like they did.

Perhaps I could have not known you at all.

Now, I get what’s left of you, thanks to them, and thanks to you for allowing it.

At least with them, you found it fun. Now, it’s just an annoyance.

 

Do I feel any sympathy or empathy for you?

No. I believe you liked it.

You show no shame in the nasty things you have done.

Why would I feel for you?

 

If our pasts make us who we are today, I’m a self-loathing, self-centered, womanizing drug addict.

What does that make you?