It took me almost eighteen years to learn that you don't have to quit breathing to be dead, to be gone.

It comes and goes in waves, sometimes like a hurricane, and when it's crashing on the shore it's almost as if it's crashing into me, destroying all the walls I built to keep myself safe, to keep myself sane.

I've been dead for a while now, and you cry at night because you don't know how to fix me, and I don't cry anymore because I know there's no use.

I'm sorry that I gave up on myself, and I'm sorry you haven't learned that it's easier to let someone die than to try and revive a ghost.