This week, I told a friend that I wanted to kill myself. Not the first time I have said that, and certainly won't be the last. I see the blood spurting from my forearm as I slide a knife up the length of my arms. I watch as if from above as the life drains out of me. I see all the people that would be floored by it. One person in particular stands out in the grey crowd, her hair the blazing sun cutting through the grey colour of grief. And her look of betrayal and hopelessness used to keep me going.

But how can I keep going when she spurns and taunts me with her sobs and soothing words of love? When she dances close enough for me to breathe in the perfume of her life and let it keep me from the brink before dancing away from me?

My head is once more filled with the screams and moans of my mind. The anger that I can never reveal for fear of losing more. The mourning for the blood spilt in the name of love. The pull of the void that lovingly caresses, so inviting, so familiar.

JT. Getting over you is the hardest thing I'll ever do. Please forgive me when I fail.