Tonight I saw her for the first time in a long time.
I haven't wanted someone so badly in years
and it was beyond any physical yearning.
It was this visceral knowledge that she
was everything I needed to chase away
the bleakness that I've come to call life.
I hate that about her.
I hate that I've dive-bombed into this
fucking pit of depression and anxiety
that has sucked away any self-respect
I may have ever held on to and replaced
it with this archaic notion that I can't be
happy on my own.
I hate it because it's true.
I am validated in the eyes of others
and when there's no one around to see
me I don't know who to be.
I don't know how to be.
I sip and I smoke and I pop
and try to fill the vacancy with
any and everything my body will allow.
I've only come to suicide once and it was so
many years back it feels more like the plot
of a shitty soap opera than a chapter of
my life story.
Clearly I failed and by some miracle
not a soul knows that I ever even tried.
They just thought I was sick.
Well the doctors are long gone but the
sickness still pulses through my veins like
a vapid bassline in a song no one
bothers to learn the words to.
And why should they when it's my song to
sing and I can't even come up with the melody
on my own?
I saw her tonight for the first time in a long time
and the only thing I could bring myself to think
was how much happier she would be talking to
anyone else in this world besides me.
She owns parts of my soul that have no value
because they were pried from a shell that housed no worth.
Everything she means to me serves as a poignant
reminder that I'll only ever be as good as the person
that loves me.
And to her I never meant a thing.