I'm staring at the blank paper in front of me, trying to write how I'm feeling on the page in ink that's fading as fast as I am. It seems fitting that the stark white doesn't change.

My hand fidgets with the pen.

You left four days ago with everything that you own. You took the quilts, the microwave, the two black mugs you love, and every red pen in the house. The only thing left in our old bedroom is the green sheets and my empty book shelf. You even took the chocolate milk you bought last week to help you swallow your pills.

The light flickers above my head.

I've been "sleeping" on the ratty couch for the past four nights. Honestly, I spend the nights staring at the spiderwebs on the ceiling and the cracks in the wall. The sky stopped having stars the moment the words, "I'm done," left from behind your lips.

My breathing stutters.

I put every knife in the house in the empty freezer. Every mirror that I could lift by myself is in the front yard, probably being pooped on by the birds. I haven't left the house in four days, and I can't seem to care enough to change it.

My vision blurs.

I flushed every pill in the house down the toilet, except for the bottles of aspirin I keep on the bed we used to share. If I ever get over you enough to enter what used to be my paradise, I'll be ready to end everything I know.

I gasp for air.

I'm glad that you left me. You deserved so much better than me, but you never believed me. Even though all I want to do is join my father in the ground, I'm glad that I'm living without you.

I deserve to suffer.

All I wanted was to live with you, but I managed to screw that up. All I wanted was to grow old with you by my side, but I managed to ruin that dream for myself. All I wanted was to hold your in my arms in a bed that we would share for the rest of our lives, but that dream was ripped from my grasp by my own stupidity.

I'm sorry.

I shouldn't be trying to write this letter to you when I know that the ink will be blurred by my tears. You won't be able to read my illegible script made my shaking hands and invisible ink. I shouldn't be trying to make up for my mistakes with pen and paper.

I should make it up to you with blood on bathroom tiles.