Every time I disappoint you, my hollow body fills with the dark depression I’ve so eagerly shoveled out of it with all my other emotions. No matter the promises, the second you refuse to look at me, to make coherent sentences in my direction, my thoughts turn to those of suicide. Even though, in my mind, it is apparent that this spur of alienation will soon subside, I cannot seem to get over the fact that, once again, I have made you angry, sad, et cetera, and am willing to pay the ultimate retribution.

You walk away, attempting to fill the hole I left gaping in your heart with blood. You mock yourself with simple words like “emo,” but it breaks apart every fiber of my heart to see fresh cuts on your arms where the scars are. It seems nothing I do can get through to you that I meant no harm, to harm ever to the only one who heals my constant internal torture. All I can do is sit, helpless, and wait for you to finish what you start.

Moreover, to thank me afterwards, as if I had done some great deed in allowing your beautiful self to come to harm, is more of a blow to the chest than an insult. All the whips and water in the world would never do the damage such words as those have. All in all, I have found this the most unbearable torment I’ve come across yet.

You have the gall to later admit that such going-ons have naught to do with me, but I know better. The only time such cuts appear are only after a little spat in which I, the horrid, antagonistic monster that I am, hurt your sacred soul. Nothing you can say will ever change my knowledge of this. I may be stupid, unable to learn when to stop the moment before I hurt you, but I am not so dull that I cannot see the obvious when it is placed in front of my face.

Later, even though the scars are obvious on that precious pearl skin, you act as though nothing has happened, as if all is forgotten. Instead of feeling victory at this, however, all it leads me to believe is that this cycle is never-ending, and one day I will drive you not just to blood, but to death…