My fingers are black from mascara stained tears that I do not wish to weep. My mouth is dry with words and excuses and lies I keep mumbling under the many breaths I have taken since you left. They say a smooth sea never made a skilled sailor but it’s so fucking hard to believe that the depth of the ocean is not as scary as the various depths of self-hate I will throw myself into. Nothing seems right and all I can think about is the colour black, and how glaring my computer screen is against a supposedly suicide note I plan on leaving you. Funny, because I never wanted to leave but you walked away anyway.

I cannot think about anything else – everything else is a wreck and beneath it all is the carcass of my body that had died long before I did. I wish I could point exactly where I started giving up, or where my mind had decided to shut itself down. This will only carry on with tradition – how am I going to get better if I am not going to admit that my emotions are validated and enough?

I am so afraid of becoming the mess you left me to be.