Sanctum of Despondence

By the time you read this, I hope to be dead.
You can't undo something that's happened; you can't take back a word that's already been said out loud. You'll think about me and wish that you had been able to talk me out of this. You'll try to figure out what would have been the one right thing to say, to do. I guess I should tell you, don't blame yourself; this isn't your fault, but that would be a lie. We both know that I didn't get here by myself.
You'll cry, at my funeral. You'll say it didn't have to be this way. You will act like everyone expects you to. But will you miss me?
More importantly-will I miss you?
Does either one of us really want to hear the answer to that question?

Sincerely,

Avarice