I wish I could care.

I find myself telling myself I should.  Tearing myself down over and over trying to find a way to.  And I wish I could sob.  I wish I could vomit blood until I pass out.  I wish and I don’t do anything other than tell myself that the wishing itself is supposed to be important.  I try to find what I once had to live for and find myself settling for attempting to recall a time I didn’t think I was going to kill myself and I can’t even do that without saying that the desire to be dead is what I irrevocably have.  What is mine and myself and what I want to throw away so willingly.  And I’m theoretically sickened by that because I can’t bring myself to actually feel anything about it.

I think that I don’t think there is any question of whether I’ll kill myself.  I KNOW that nothingness is far preferable to emptiness.

What I can say without circles or obfuscation is that this can’t go on.