You've done it, Gerard.
You've mentally, emotionally, and physically caused me pain.
I know I shouldn't stay with you. You punched me right in the fucking face. But it hurt less than your words. I can't let you go no matter how much you hurt me. If people knew you punched me and I still stayed with you and loved you, do you think they'd be more disgusted by me or you?
Last night, after you left, I smashed all your bottles you had in the house. Every last one. I know where you hide them all. I poured all the hatred fucking booze out and smashed the disgraceful fucking bottles that ruined both our lives. I know you'll hate me for that. You'll hate me more than you already do. But I did it for us. Mostly for you.
Loving you would be so much easier if you acted like a boyfriend should.
The reason you'll find that some of the blue lines on this letter are smudged and that on the places they're smudged, the paper is more crisp than the rest is because I haven't stopped crying since last night. I couldn't sleep at all. Not when I knew you were out there probably with another guy, maybe sleeping with him and drinking and doing shit you wouldn't want me knowing about. And I want to trust you, Gerard. I want to trust that you're not sleeping with someone else but something restricts me from doing that. You can't be mad at me for that. How can you expect me to trust you anymore? I want to trust you, but I physically can't.
What's a relationship without trust? If you don't trust me (which I strongly doubt you do) where do we stand? Do you consider us boyfriends anymore? Do you still think about marrying me like you used to? Do you still love me, even though you haven't said it in a month and five days? Because I still love you more than anything I have ever felt love towards. I still love you way more than life and I would die for you. That's corny as fuck, but you know I would.
There's something I should tell you. Because I'm going to try my hardest to trust you again. I don't know if you'll care or even give a second thought, let alone a first, but I'm going to tell you anyway because if we don't have trust, what do we have?
I relapsed last night, or more specifically, this morning at around 5:30. I'm not even going to lie to you: I wouldn't have done it if you hadn't walked out again. I was ten months clean, Gerard. You saved me for ten months. I remember how hard you tried to get me to stop. Even after I did stop, you checked my wrists daily. Every. Single. Fucking. Day. You haven't done that in a month either. So here I am, sitting on our bed (I still consider it ours. It will always be ours), writing you this letter with all those bracelets on my wrists again. Just like it used to be. Just like it always should have been.
It always should've been this way. Right? I shouldn't have stopped. I wasn't giving myself what I deserved.
You don't know where my blades are anymore. You flushed my old ones, but little did you know that just two weeks ago I bought brand new ones and didn't tell you, didn't use them till this morning. And now they're hidden somewhere I won't tell you. Somewhere you'll be too drunk to even think about. You can't save me anymore. I offered you a deal last night. We save each other. That's how it's supposed to be and that's how it always was up until a month and five days ago. But you denied the deal and I told you I can't save myself and you at the same time. So I'm giving myself up for you.
Is it me killing myself or you unknowingly killing me?
Maybe this'll slowly kill me. Maybe it won't be either of us. I don't care anymore, Gerard. I don't fear death. I fear loneliness. I'd rather die than be lonely. So let it kill me. Let me smoke myself to death. Let me hurt myself to death. Let me think myself to death. After all, if I were dead, your life would be so much easier. I'm nothing but a burden to you and to everyone. I'm a burden upon myself. I'm sorry if I ruined your life. But like you're addicted to liquor, I'm addicted to you.
