This is not real life.

I’m overthrown with self-hatred. I open the plastic bag he left outside of my door. My favourite shirt smells of him. I lunge forward and vomit in my paper bin. My hands shake as I grasp the metal edge of the bin. A sharp ache hits my chest and I want to die.

I want

 I want

I want

Help.

 No. I shake my head and refuse myself that privilege. I lost that when I decided I liked no-one. I won’t let anyone else carry my burden.

I have a choice.

Carry myself or kill myself. If I stop caring I’ll survive. I’ll be like a ghost. If I die, I’ll definitely stop caring. I will stop existing one way or another.

I notice the pain killers on the dresser.

This was the moment that I would die inside.