I don't think I'm sad anymore.

"Sad."

It's a stupid, tiny word that tries to be much bigger and more important than it really is. Three letters? Really? Three letters that are supposed to encompass everything from greif, to pain, to utter heartbroken, agonizing devastation?

Who the fuck came up with that?

Maybe I don't feel sad anymore because I never really felt sad to begin with. I felt lost. I felt sick from hurting so much. I felt as though my world had just burned down around my ears, fallen through space, or come apart at every binding that it had.

"Sad" was too much of a horrific understatement, even from the beginning.

Now I'm numb. Nothing makes it past the surface, so that I can taste happy and angry and loss and fear-but they don't seem real to me. I'm hovering somewhere between apathetic and melancholy. There are real words. Words that feel like what they mean. I know what those words are, they're straight-forward-not trying to be more than they are.

I don't know when, all of a sudden, the pain faded into this icy numbness. Maybe sometime after he found someone new. It might be just that I'm so tired, because I'm always smiling to hide everything. The strong mask is so heavy to wear everyday, but I can't face the questions-so I carry it anyway.

That's just one theory though. I have a few of them.

Maybe it's just the shock of giving so much away, and then losing it all. Because I've always told myself that I never needed anyone, or anything. And then he came along, with his pretty eyes, and his soft voice. He walked in like some kind of greek god, with all the mystery of death and the beauty of something that could only be posionus. And just like that, I was ignoring my own rules.

So maybe it's the shock of losing him, for good this time. The past had been littered with our breakups, and makeups. There was always one more chance, one more try waiting when I messed up. Maybe the shock is acting as an anaesthetic against the agony that I could be feeling, kind of like the injected painkiller soothing the sting of the device that adminstered it.

Everything seems very far away now. Like it isn't real. Of course, I can still recognize the things I need to do, like faking that smile, or my homework, or chores-and attending visists with my sister and my father.

Looking back, maybe it's a good thing I'm numb. That way I don't feel the pain my dad causes along with the pain that's being held back.

But even when I'm staring at something significant, like my sister-or my father-or my dog, I don't feel anything. Usually when you know somethings important, you feel something for it. You form an emotinal attatchment to it, you work around it, for it, with it. But right now that seems like more energy than I've got.

Another theory.

To feel something, takes energy. Think about it, how tiring it must be to be angry, or ecstatic or afraid. Even if it's a good emotion, feeling anything strongly enough will drain you-if only for a little while. Maybe I've been feeling too much, way too much, since it happened. So much that I used up all the energy I had, so I can't feel anything.

I'm sure there are still bits and peices of emotions lurking inside of me, somewhere. Underylying my thoughts and words. My dreams. But I used up every ounce of strength I possessed, feeling more than I'd ever felt in all my life, in the course of a year. And now I'm dry.

Dry.

There's another three letter word, just like sad. But being a small word is ok for 'Dry.' It's supposed to be small, it's meant to be insignificant and dull and lifeless-easy to overlook.

Dry.

Looking at it too long, it stops being a word at all-and just becomes this uncomfortable feeling of motony. Like the feeling of sun-scorched sand grating against parched skin. It's kind of rough and gritty and hot, yet smooth.

I'ts actually quite pathetic, what I've become. I just float along, seperate from the world around me. Out of synch. Detatched. Always just a step behind, leaving a small but defined space between where I am and where I'm supposed to be. My life has become a weak, watered down, immitation of how things really are. Kind of like squinting through muddy water.

Is this really what I am now? Did I give everything away all in one shot, and leave myself hollow? Did he take the essence of who I was with him in his long delicate fingers when he turned away from me for the last time? That's what it feels like. Like I'm nothing but a ghost. A shade. A reflection of what I once was.

All but gone.

'All' isn't a big word to look at, but it sounds big. Which is as it should be, really. It's made up of big sounds, the kind that stretch and pull, and can be drawn out like spun sugar. Soon enough it becomes vast, as big as whatever it's being used in refrence to. It slides out of your mouth, spreading like it could stretch into forever, going on and on like it'll never end, until it surrounds you-like a forever-ecohing music note.

I gave him my all. I reached inside of me and dug up every last bit of me-all my secrets, my hopes and dreams, my pain, my thoughts, my emotions, my past-and laid it before him. I was vunerable and exposed to him, like standing too close to the fire.

Which brings about the last theory. Maybe my feelings are drifting just out of my reach, because when I open up, when I let myself feel so strongly, instead of pushing everything away and locking it all up in a little box so that it can't touch me-suddenly everything is so much louder, so much sharper and clearer, like a blaring foghorn that's screaming in my ears telling me over and over that it's too good to be true.

The screaming keeps reminding me that he's gone. He was-is-so much a part of me, as my heart, as the freckles that puncuate my face. He is so much a part of me, so deeply rooted into my core-that to feel anything is to remember him. Because how could I give away so much, let all of me rest in his hand like the breakable wings of a butterfly, and not feel so much for him that he would become one of those little secrets he held?

Everything is a constant reminder that He is gone, that He is not mine-that the person on the other end of the line is not him, and that he is not the one texting me. Pain, anger, confusion, happiness, they're all reminders of him-that he's not coming back.

When I'm not numb, I think too much. I remember too much.

When I'm not numb, I think of him.

Him.

Him.

Him.

Maybe three letters doesn't seem quite so small after all.