I spent most of my time on empty. I wanted to hold their hands forever, I wanted to keep them all close, I wanted to never let go of the things I loved. Abandonment was what my life consisted of, the false pretense of sticking around but only leaving when reality was the inevitable. Things fell apart, every morning on the couch, every afternoon in the home my family separated in, every evening in the shower. Countless days, seemingly endless nights, profound dreams of a future only torn apart by the bare hands of myself, my own self destruction, my own rampant mindset, fragments of a once bright child tossed into the river of disease and illness. Eight years passed by, the only thing still on my mind was demise. Things kept breaking, vases smashed upon the floor, my own body limp on the floor of the school bathroom from a failed overdose attempt. The life I led until now had only been something empty, still empty. As a child, joy was once a part of me, I didn’t seem to care much about the world but only the direct objects around me; toys, books, countless trading cards my family carelessly brought me to feed my addiction at such a young age, little did I know it would turn into drugs, a daily basis of wake up and smoke, drink in the afternoon, and crash by midnight only to do it all over again like some lifeless zombie. My life was empty for the last eight years, and still continues to be that way. Even now, as I sit here writing this ****, drunk, trying to fathom and conjure some deep emotion only felt in such a way I could, life is still an empty piece of me just as the rest of the pieces are as well. Depressing as it might be but it’s just become a way of life I can’t seem to change and sadly I’d love to feel some sort of genuine joy. I’d like to feel a part of me be whole again, but after years of abuse to myself, the only thing I feel is a burden of past mistakes and the anticipation of millions to be made through my entire lifetime if I even make it to have an entire lifetime. It hurt so badly waking up in the morning, regretting every second of the previous day, finding the flaws in every sentence spoken the day before, looking back at every scene as if it were some failed attempt at a decent reality; every part reflecting on some broken child, surrounded by only distance from others, miles at least. It makes me sick to see people happy as awful as that sounds, it breaks me because I know I don’t have that, I don’t have the comfort of a loving mother, the happiness of a decent relationship where I feel connected in every way. Instead it’s empty, each and every day, more than the last, constant disconnection from everyone, constant hate for the happy, constant emptiness. My life is something diminutive; idly moving along, seldom part of anything significant. It’s funny though, I had a lot of friends growing up. I had enough to go around, as a matter of fact. But just like anyone else, they left. My life has been nothing but abandonment, and it’s bent me, beat me down more than it ever really had to, and I never knew what to do. Today, I woke up, to turn over a new leaf, but just as any other day, those plans crumbled under the weight of my own instability. Every part of me broke over the last few years. I’ll deal with it one day, I’ll put myself on the front lines of this self defeating war step up “as a man” and deal with myself. Give all of me, a shot at a decent reality. I’ve only wanted a place to call home.