You think the sadness leaves. It doesn’t. 

When I first met you, I said you were my Prozac with yet unknown side effects. Well I know what those side effects are now. First, that its efficacy is short-lived, and yet my body has grown so accustomed to it I cannot live without it anymore. Second, like most drugs, there is a period of complete and utter bliss, but then comes a crash that is so violent, it is something singularly spectacular to behold. 

These black, viscous, septic thoughts well up in my blood. These cancerous, virulent feelings course through my lymph. “Why have you lost so much weight?” people ask. “Because I have cancer, that’s why. I’m eaten alive by all kinds of horrible things, things that would sicken and appall people, if they were to open me up one day,” I want to answer. 

I’m trapped in a Sartre-ian limbo. My flesh was cut, blood flowed, and yet I still breathe. I want to die, but have lost the courage to attempt it again. Death says, you are far too contaminated, far too defiled for my kingdom. 

The loneliness is crushing, it’s maddening. I’ve never had much use for people in my life, because they don’t help. They only made me feel more left out in this world that has left me behind because I was broken. But you helped. You were so much a part of me that I no longer felt lonely. I could hate you, cut myself up because of you, bash my head against the wall in an attempt to clear out the anger and the frustration, I could kill myself, but I wouldn’t be lonely so long as I have you. I cannot go back to that loneliness again; if I have to flay myself I would do it, but I cannot go back. And yet, that is what you want to do. Leave me and let me rot in that unforgiving, torturous abyss. You say that I would be better if we weren’t together, but how would you know? You have never been trapped in that chasm, never experienced that bone-crushing despair, that loneliness, that deafening silence. You want to impose this on me. 

You always ask me what the things I love about you are. To tell you the truth, one of the very big reasons was how much you love me and how much I felt loved. It made me feel like none of this mattered. Like I was an actual person deserving of love. Like I wasn’t as left out as I thought I was. I was wrong. Only a monster could love a monster like me. 

This sadness is inherent in me, in my mother’s blood, and her mother’s. This sadness caresses me, drowns me, buries me. I am the darkness that overwhelms, I am the darkness molten.