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.
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