Its presence haunts me. Like the wounds it causes. Every move you make is a reminder of its company. I have not looked at it for a very long time. For the last time I did, it almost cost me my life. The weight of it stings my skin with just the thought. I have not looked at it in a very long time but for some reason I cannot let it go. I picture it my head resting in the small container holding it. Confining its power so it cannot weild me. But still, my mind is constricted with the thought. Darkness spilling out of gaping veins that it has yet to open. My body shakes with the expectance of what might happen if my head cannot resist the thought of its cold touch. The same cold touch that freezes everything with in me. The same cold touch that causes me to solidify like a sculpture made of ice, shattered with a simple touch, that melts from its fractures. My eyes cannot shift from the memories it has left on my body. My fingers run over the white lines and I read their stories like brail. There is a feeling of absence when their is no irritated lines to break up the picture. There is a feeling of emptiness when there is numbness in the skin that is a product of my past. There is and urge to reach for the light that reflects off of it. But my skin begins to itch because it knows what is coming. My eyes fill with the clouds I have stolen from the sky to fill my soul and I can no longer see the outline of my own hand. My body fights the war that I have put it through. Though it knows that when the battle begins my mind will win. This is not a beautiful story. This story ends in blood soaked soil drowning me when I cross the battlefeild. This story is not beautiful. Because my body’s screams are like the screaching of tires across the hard asphalt. My sunken in cheeks consume the rest of my face. My feet refuse to carry a cavernous body that has become a home for the mosters within it. I am fighting against my own body and we all know what that leads to. No metaphor can make that hole 6 feet deep any prettier than the insects already decorating its walls.
I feel sick. The last time I felt like this it ended worse than I could ever have imagined. Last time I felt this sick I was left with a scar on my wrist that looks like a line terminating my existence. But, yet again, here I am. Nine years. Nine years between us and somehow we have managed to make this out of our lives. Two days and you make me think about every waking moment of my existence and question every choice I have ever made. Is this my fault? My stomach feels like it is consuming itself and someone’s hand is reaching down my throat to stop it. I am alone in this and I do not know how I got here. You are kind. You are sweet. But even the day I become legal I am the same person that I am just the day before. One day does not change me. So why is it then and only then that we can be? I do not think this can work but for some reason, I cannot say no. This is my fault. I got myself into the situation. You do not make me sick. I make me sick. I am repulsed by the thought that I can be so ignorant and so willing. Though you are okay with this I am not. But I will not tell you that because I am weak. I will continue and wait until I become so sick of the thoughts going through my head and you decide that whatever this is cannot work. It is always me. I will always get myself into this. I am my own problem. I am my own worst fear. I am sorry just as sorry as I will be when we end this. I am sick and I do not know if I can live with it.