I’ve been without you for so long now, I’m starting to wonder if maybe all I did was dream you. Were you ever real? The scars I got while we were together — did they happen? Did you see me bleed, and then clean my wounds and dare to smile at me?

Today, for the thousandth time, I thought about dying. Not killing myself — there’s a certain amount of guts that takes that I just don’t have — but just dying. Going to sleep and never waking up. Getting hit by a bus. Getting shot. Dropping dead for no good reason.

I thought about it, and all I could feel was a sense of dull hope and relief.

Maybe you’re not real, and all of this is just a product of the stories I’ve told myself to escape a world in which I’ve just never fit.

I’m too afraid to find out, anymore.

If you were waiting to see if I’d break, I’d say you can stop waiting.

Talk back to me. Trust me; I'm listening.

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