That’s a realization that I never wanted to admit, I believed that the person I used to be was just buried deep down inside of me. That all it would take is for me to dig far enough and that guy would still be there.
I never dreamed that I had buried a body.
A body that needed oxygen, and food, and water and the simplest of things to survive. I killed that guy the moment that I decided I was too tired to dig, too tired to find him, and to be honest too tired to give a ****.
I am so angry.
I’m angry at being ****** over. I’m angry that I can’t have a drink.
Now I am self destructive, taking any semblance of positivity and emotional attachment and attacking it like a virus and I am white cells. I see someone willing to put out something for me, and I strategically tear it down until I’m standing in the ashes because picking through rubble is easier now than opening up.
I’m the enemy of me, and I act like the world is out for my blood while I hold a ****** palm out and a knife in the other hand.
My mentality has been so skewed that people’s thoughts and feelings don’t matter anymore, because in my ****** up mind they are going to leave.
How ****** is that?
How ****** is that fact that even food doesn’t taste the same as it used to? That even the colors are no longer bright and “there” like they used to be. When your laying in bed at night and trying to think of one thing that made the day different from all the others.
No joy is left.
No “looking on the bright side”, or thinking that everything is going to be ok.
All that’s left is a corpse.
All that’s left is blood on my hands.
And I can’t even remember where I buried the body.