martyrdom

the story of my story

People ask me all the time why I don't write anymore. They ask whether or not there will be something else to follow. I say I don't, but I don't tell them why.

The truth is I'd written out all the pain and sorrow that I'd felt before. I'd been drained of everything. That's probably why the people liked my book so much, because of its intensity. That book is– or should I say, was– me. I didn't even have to think anymore. I'd just read a chapter or two, and everything would come rushing back.

Yes, I was drained, but I'd been drained before. When I'd scream myself hoarse, when I'd cry myself to sleep, when I'd fight with all the people I loved over you... of course, I'd be drained. And yet, this time was different. This time, the pain did not come back. It did not leave me aching for weeks. The hole that was there for so long had closed to the point where it was like it hadn't existed in the first place. It was a strange feeling, to be rid of pain.

I'd gotten over you, somehow. I'd moved on without my even knowing. Surely, it was a good thing, wasn't it? To get on with my life without such a heavy burden?

But I can't write anymore. Not like before, anyway. Pain was the fuel to my words, all of them. Is there a way to call it back without its bringing you along? I hope so.

So when people ask me why I don't write anymore, I try my best to hide my shame– the shame of my inability to come up with words to a sentence, sentences to a chapter, chapters to a book. The only way I can is to let you hurt me, to let you ruin me through and through. Because while I've moved on from you, you are still the reason why I am able to write. And in that, I can't just let you go.

Oh, how I hate for you for doing this to me. But I hate myself more for letting you.