I am tired of this filthy I cannot scrub off my skin. Forced to sit in it like a punishment for existing and isn’t that what I get? Pick my brain as much as you want. I have no answers for you other than I am so fucking sick of making this bed every day, the way I half ass make it, and for what? To lie down in the mess of it all. Well, I made my bed… but I don’t want the strings that are attached to it anymore. I don’t want any of it. All of this shit… take it with you. It never made me happy like I thought it would. All the money I spent chasing for that feeling, it never came. The money spent me like these days spend me and I have never been so empty handed. If I know anything at all, it’s that happiness can’t be bought. The picket fence said so. All this shit said so. The best of everything says so. Those shoes overflowing, the closet busting open, the perfect curtains, furniture, square footage, cars, land… it only told me I am still starving. The plates I cleaned, shoved in my mouth and down my throat didn’t fill me with anything other than self deprecation offering more emptiness than I know what to do with. I threw the plates in the trash when I grew tired of cleaning them. The good plates. The ones I never let anyone use because after all, they are the good plates and they stay in the pantry or they’re displayed in the China cabinet. Those plates. I don’t want them anymore. You can’t buy what I’ve been chasing and we always realize that way too late. I don’t know why. But it’s too late. I made such a mess of things. Mostly myself and now I don’t see anything but the elephant in the room and it’s me. I don’t know how I lost myself like this. It’s all a scatter, a big blur. One night it was foggy and the next morning, the fog didn’t lift. It just stayed. Like the heavy things I carry in my heart, they never go. And I’m weighed down with all of this, but I still don’t have the answers. Maybe I never will. You’ve been great. I know you broke your back giving me the world, turned your head the other way at all of my fuck ups, and refusing to leave all this time. It’s not fair, I know. You won’t get all the time back. Neither will I. But I have nothing left to give. My offering plate… it’s gone. I broke it. I’m broken. Stop settling for the pieces when you could have something whole. I am never going to be that. Even if you keep throwing more pieces into me, it’s never going to add up. You know why. It’s just too late. You should know by now there’s no saving me. I know it feels like you are sometimes, but you only make it worse. You’re only throwing your hands up in the air trying to catch a lost cause. It’s useless. You can’t be my hero. I had one of those once. I was never searching for a replacement. There isn’t one. Just go. I can’t begin to stand until you stop being a crutch that carries me. I am the broken you can’t fill. So stop trying. I cannot save myself until you let go. Let me go.