I started writing because I lost you. My therapist, her name was Jacqueline, she said that was the best thing for me to do. Then she said she had to leave, she was moving back home, out of the country, gave me a little red Buddha statuette and told me to rub his tummy and make a wish if I ever felt lonely. And I did, for eight years, despite seeing no results. I believed so naïvely for so long.
My soulmate died when she was twenty-seven. Two years later I turned twenty-seven. I didn't want to live to be older than her, as you can see I did, but I did not want to. I put more effort into taking my life that year than any before. I wrote and I cried, I bled and I died, and I lived; because of you. Why else would I be here, I tried so hard, succeeded at failing, failing to succeed. Since then I've been giving everyone what they wanted, but never received. Anything. Beyond hate and hurt, use and abuse, that's how I know this is what I deserve.
I'm not allowed to die because dying would end my suffering. I'm not allowed to live, because I'd learn to stop suffering. I'm caught in this oblivion in between where all that exists suffering, at least, for me. I'd sell my soul for a smile so I could have some idea of what it means to be happy.
I guess you'd be ashamed of me if you were here, but you were the first to leave, and everyone I've ever needed since has followed. Is it any wonder my insides were slowly hollowed?