Witt’s End

I wake up. I mourn the loss of my partner. I struggle through the work day. I cry. I weep. I have no idea why I’m not gone when I have nothing. When I am nothing. When I should have driven off the road ages ago. When I should have slit my wrists.

I miss self-harming. The adrenaline would dull everything else. The physical sting would quiet down the mental anguish. And yet I can’t bring myself to break a several year streak because my friends would be “disappointed.” No one would even notice, surely.

Maybe one night I’ll get drunk or high enough to just do it. I’ll just hate myself enough to do it so I can join her.