Fuck! I wish I didn’t care. I wish I could walk away and never look back, forgetting everything, feeling nothing. I should never have come here. I certainly don’t belong here. Belong. What a strange word that I’ve never really experienced. People call me crazy, lazy, and oh, what was that you called me? Ditsy. That’s all it took and I was hooked. I go weeks without you, and I never ever care less. Or remember less, or want less. It hurts so badly but I can’t go back. Not now. No way. No how. Instead, I just wait and ache. For fuck sake, I admit this was all a mistake.

But what now? As the tears roll down my cheeks and my soul is hollow and I feel so weak and I know I won’t talk to you again for weeks. What have I done? Have I come undone? We use to have such fun. Now I stare every day down the barrel of that gun. That’s it. I have to go and admit. I have come undone. You’ve lost your head and I know I should leave. I mean my brain is screaming RUN, but I can’t move, I am fixated on that gun. I stare at it and wonder is it loaded and will it kill me if the trigger gets pulled? I can only hope and do more dope or whatever it takes for me to cope, and go surreal and no longer feel.

I wonder if you’ll ever know that side of me I never show. The one I keep in a box to hide that side of my pride and you can’t see me inside. You never even look my way unless you disagree with what I say so I have decided to say nothing at all and have come to terms with being so small and insignificant to you. I know that it’s true and I stay just the same and live with the shame of pretending this isn’t a game that I’ve already lost, so I stay. And I pray and pray, pray, pray that one day you will just go away and leave me alone. I am waiting for that day for me to stand on my own but that gun may just be the answer.

And oh, ain’t it great? We have 11 years to celebrate and all my love has turned to hate but that isn’t true either because somehow every day, I find a new way to love you and I hate it. Because I know you will never love me back and will push and pull as your eyes, go black, and I tremble in fear of the next attack. But I made a promise a long time ago that I would stay and never go. So here I stay and play and pretend this is fun, and through the tears stare down the barrel of that gun, I grin and most believe me when I say I’ve won. There are a few who know me so well and can see that I live in this self-created hell. But what can they do when I’ve made my promises to you? They do as I do and pretend this is true. Love?