Because It Doesn’t Matter

He wept. He wept for all the things he wasn’t- the things he’d never be. He wept for the people he’d hurt and for the disappointment he’d caused them to feel. Mostly though he wept for himself. He was a failure. Certifiably broken. He wept because he wanted to kill himself and he knew that wasn’t right but he wanted everything to stop and he didn’t know what happiness meant or how to achieve it. He wept because nothing was right and he didn’t know how to fix it nor how to pretend. He wept because everything hurt and the only way to alleviate it was too many pills or a rope and chair or a knife or a gun.

He didn’t remember a time when the darkness hadn’t blocked his view of the sun, hadn’t seduced his foolish longing for a future of contentment. The only thing he knew was how to fill the void. He spent his days trying to appease the pit with hours of trivial t.v. and inconsequential books and pointless bouts of school work.

He wept because he was hollow. And he knew there wasn’t any help for this kind of vacancy. He wept because it didn’t make sense for blood to be pumping through his veins when he didn’t have emotions. It was more than that because nothing made sense and everything was confusing and empty and fucking meaningless. He didn’t understand why this was happening to him, what he did to deserve this- if there was a cure. He just wanted release.