I was a threat to your happiness,
always have been.
But now, my mistakes have
caught up with me.
What's wrong with you?
How can you do this to me?
you cried.
I choked.
You deserved a reason.
You deserved a million apologies.
But all I could say was,
Please don't leave me.
Please don't go.
You walked away for the last time.
I felt dark
and grey
and dead,
barely breathing.

If we'd lived like normal people-
All of this could have been avoided.
But we didn't.
We were nuts and desperate.
We couldn't help but create this
nothingness that drove us completely crazy,
sad,
empty.
Still, no one's desperation came close
to matching mine.
They all seemed to be able to go back to their lives.
They got scuffed up and they got on with it,
Only I seemed to be left behind,
crying and screaming,
wanting some satisfaction,
wanting to feel something.
I always sought solace in places
where I know, absolutely,
that it did not exist.

Is this what insanity feels like?

Shaking and crying uncontrollably,
I'm so dreadful right now.
Anything is more appealing
than sitting with me
in this state.
You sigh and pull me in close.
Just breathe
you whisper.
You've gotten through this before.
And you're right.
This demon has been with me
for years.
How the hell do I get rid of it?

You're tired of taking care of me,
I know.
But I'm afraid you'll leave.
Please don't leave me alone
with myself,
with this monster.
I'm terrified of what it will
make me do when you walk
out the door.

But you do anyways.

You always ask me
what will help me out of this
depressed state.
And for the past three years,
my answer has always been the same.
Copious amounts of alcohol and
a neverending blackout
to forget the misery
I'm in.

Love.
My brain shuts off.
I feel nauseous.
All I will ever do is trip
and fall down.
I want out.
I need out.
It seems like it could never work out.
The promise of a beautiful future
is all a big hoax.
I am curled up in fetal position.
I can't stop crying.
Everything seems to have gone wrong.
Can I ever not mess up?
I'm sorry.
I will always be sorry.

And God ****** I waited for you.

They sent you home today.
Doctors with white hair and dark words.
"Quality of life...inoperable...
Nonresponsive to treatment..."
I helped take off that paper gown,
sticky and
red and
crinkling.
Signed the release death-warrent.
We limped home, you and I,
faint has-been wonders.
"Your secrets made you over-think,"
you said.
I wept.
In bed, you'd be gone soon.
But you couldn't go if I held on,
could you?