An Unedited Plea

It's this time of night when my words come out in torrents and never-ending spiels, my fingers tripping over keys as words start to back-up out my ears and all sides of my brain and I forget to edit until the morning.
 
When my eyes get itchy and I scratch them till the corners get red and I look in the mirror cabinet and we've run out of Visine.
 
Looking at my phone, on the ground facedown to make sure I'm not rereading old texts or checking to see if you're online, but I heard a notification and I really think it's you this time.
 
When tiny strands of auburn start showing up on my hands and I realize that I've been pulling out my hair trying to think of our last conversation, trying to figure out the exact moment when you stopped liking me.
 
I think it was after the confession, before I never said sorry.
I'm so sorry.