It hurts doing this to myself. It hurts knowing I’m not nearly as important to you as you are to me. I’ve left you alone for days now and I’m afraid the only one who actually feels alone is me. I’ve spent the last weeks—months actually—dedicating myself to you because you’ve expressed a desire for it. A desire for love. A love that is passionate and fiery and as addicting as heroin. A love you haven’t experienced in a very long time. I’ve poured my very heart out for you over and over again. I’ve stayed awake, woken up early, written, and prayed. All for a chance you may turn around and do the same. Nightly repeating apologies have become an egregious lullaby for a somber heart and I dread the morning. When I awake, the reality of my world without you comes to fruition and I’m alone. The cold bites my skin and reminds me of where you are not: Here.

The saddest part is, you have no idea. You’re perfectly fine in your straw house. Ignorant, to the storms that exist outside. I walk along this path bending and breaking to your every will. All the while you walk along deliberately oblivious to my condition, dispelling my cries for empathy and replacing them with your own cynical conviction. At what point do I admit you are a lost cause? Allaying the grief you’ve caused me, only brings me to believe I’ll experience more in your absence. But then again, you were never here to begin with were you?