It's going to break a little each time something of hers leaves this house.

It's going to break a little each time I hear how well she's doing, or of the important events in her life I missed (from someone else of course).

It's going to break a little more when I hear she's trying this all over again, with someone who's not me. Rinse, repeat, for all "someones" to come. Indeed, I think it'll die a little each time too.

It's going to break, and break, and break until I won't know what use a heart is anymore. I'll curse it. I'll curse the contradictory nature of my personality. I'll curse God. I'll curse the fragility of our psyches. Maybe I'll even curse her. But with all the breaking and dying and cursing, I'll still be as utterly empty as I am right now.

Yes, I wish I was dead. That's my right after all, to wish for an immediate (succinct?) end to all this pain. I'm pretty sure it guarantees a 100% success rate in the "no more pain" category, and after all, this the era of instant gratification. Instant death should be made as easy to throw together as instant coffee.

But alas, just a wish. The kernel of optimism at the center of my soul will ensure many many years of fruitless torment. A sick joke I'll be playing on myself.

Hurrah.

hurrah.

Justin | 1:58 AM