Blood-stained sheets of paper littered the floor, like
the mind of a depressed author. And you picked one up, looked
me in the eyes and said this is a dead man's idea of good-bye,
where you got them, I didn't know, but I listened
to the way your voice softened as you read and sang and
wallowed. I'm sorry it had to come to this you read, I just
don't think I belong here anymore. There's this empty
hole in my chest where I loved you once before. And baby,
don't cry, you did everything you could, but sometimes
everything just isn't enough. You never said who the author was
and I think that meant a lot. I remember the night you serenaded
me with lines from suicide notes, and I remember how it was not until
the end that I realized it had been yours.
YOU ARE READING
Catharsis
Non-FictionI'm going to put myself to sleep now for a bit longer than usual. Call the time eternity. I have a feeling I shall go mad. I cannot go on longer in these terrible times. I shan't recover this time. I hear voices and cannot concentrate on my work. I...