I can’t promise you the world, or if life will be any different. I can’t promise you I will not try. I can’t say life is over, but I can say my heart is beating almost close to death, like it is a piece of glass that has a new crack in it. I am that one portrait that has black splatters that cover the real picture. It’s because I know I can’t get close to anyone. They tell me “I won’t leave” or “I love you” and I fucking fall down that cliff over and fucking over again, thinking they’ll have put a bungee cord around my waist. Maybe they did, but in the end, they cut it, telling me the cord was getting old anyways and it was going to break in the end. I always think to myself that maybe I’ll be different, I won’t pretend, that maybe once I am close enough to the edge, I won’t try to jump. But I just end up falling and impaling myself on the jagged rocks at the bottom. I know bottling myself up is “unhealthy”, but when you’re used to it and it was the one thing you were taught growing up, you get used to the feeling, but you can never EVER shake that feeling like your internal organs are screaming at you, saying, “What the fuck are you doing?!”. Sometimes, you just bottle up that shit and move on, saying that it is no different than the last time, but you know it is. You know that you felt this was going to last, you thought you could handle it, like it was going to play out and you were going to become shriveled prunes with them. You just keep fucking hoping and getting depressed, losing yourself in that god damn sea of “Where the fuck am I?” Sometimes you think it may even be better not to feel it, that it’ll just go away, but it doesn’t. Then, it’s also wrong to feel it. So, what in the Hell do you do? Number one thing: smile and pretend to everyone else. Go home and cry alone where no one can tell you that it wasn’t meant for you, that if you love something, you set it the fuck free. But let me tell you, it still fucking hurts. And you know it does. Don’t kid yourself, you know that feeling of when you want to vomit up your heart and throw it into the nearest dumpster because you know what it is; garbage. It is always out there, getting dirty, bruised, stabbed, cut, and you just keep trying to sew it, duct tape it, even hot glue it back together, but it never goes back together the way you want it to. That’s why you never are supposed to wear your heart on your sleeves. You know that crap called emotion can be seen. So just sit back and type until you feel numb or your fingers start to bleed. At least it is better than trying to mutilate the shit out of your skin, thinking you are disgusting, not worth living, like your very being should not have been. It’s almost like that thing where you are paranoid that everyone knows what you are thinking and you know they are looking condescendingly at you and you try to hide in the fold of your clothing, trying to become just a normal face in the crowd of sheep. It hurts and you don’t understand why. It makes you feel like your very worth was never important to a soul around you. You start thinking it’s not worth it, trying to be important to someone is bullshit and you start to lie to yourself every God damn day that you are alive, but you know you are bleeding blood through tears at night on your pillow with a friend that shines silver in the moonlit night. You wish for that burning passion one more time on your skin, thinking that is your release from the world and whatever scars you get are true works of art in your eyes. You know it’s so wrong for you to think that this is “normal” or “helpful”, but you know you want to and even if you have been clean for a year, or two, or even ten, it is so God damn tempting to pick up that tool of destruction and burn out the wounded parts like they cook out the parts of alcohol in certain food dishes. Is it really going to be right? I mean, why did you try for so long? How long have you been thinking about this? How long have you thought you were going to cut that bungee cord and think maybe you could at least put fucking pillows at the God damn bottom? It’s so hard to think straight ahead when all you keep thinking of is when you went out that one night when it all started or even when your heart stopped when the cold touch your face and he warmed it with his fiery kiss. And you think about if you are ever going to get that tingly feeling up your spine when a kiss is placed upon your forehead. You now wonder about the sadness that will stay with you again like a shadow at your side like it used to. You know it’s there, you see it waving at you because it missed you when you were happy. You think of the pictures that meant so much to you, but now only remind you that you are fucking empty again. After one year and two months, you are empty again. You are empty. Empty. Fucking empty. And you still wonder why. What’s wrong with you?