This will be the last time.

This will be the last time I write for you. Or at least, this is my hope for myself. Because if I have to re-play those days one more time in my head, I might die. I cannot sleep anymore. I cannot eat. I spend hours avoiding thinking about you; distracting myself in a futile attempt to forget.

I have stopped crying so much. But I have also stopped feeling the same way. I replace one vice with another. I can stave off tears with something else but it is more painful, in a way, and you would not like it. But who gives a fuck what you like.

I have replaced sadness with anger – love with hate. I do it to survive. I wonder sometimes if you will push through the screen and find me on the other side, as you said you would.

I think of the other times often. I think how little they matter now, and I think it should make me feel better. But it’s the same as then, now. I wonder if this time is the time that it won’t get better. Maybe this is how it will be forever. Maybe there is nothing to salvage – nothing to hope for.

I’m searching for new life, but all I can see is the ruins.