Black

You don't know that I'm sitting here crying.

I'm naked in the bathtub, all my disgust falling from my skin like the remnants of our memories scattering into the air with the gentle blow of your lips.

And dissolving back into the nothing that it once, that it always, was.

I know you don't feel the same way about me that I do about you.

So it doesn't mean the same to you when you don't respond.

See I wonder if you're alive or if you're lying on your bathroom floor, your fingers cold and blue in the face from your sickness.

I wonder if you even read my last message and if you even thought about responding or just didn't know how to tell me no again.

I know there's a heart inside that big hairy chest of yours, one that doesn't WANT to hurt me.

I want you to know that it's not your fault.

I feel selfish for wanting any of your time because you don't even give enough of yourself to you.

I hate myself for wishing you would respond so I know you care and so I know you're well when you probably can't even comprehend my words in your cognition, and I'm wondering if we've really lost our connection or if only I have because you were never really there throughout any of it... I feel insecure for even thinking that you were.

I hate to say that it makes me feel like you hate me.

And that it makes me feel small.

And that my stomach hurts more than my heart because tiny little pieces are shedding from it, dripping down into this dark pit one by one like a slow, painful death.

And here I am...

Still.