Letting go of Hope.

 

I remember as a teenager standing on the top of a grassy hill, In the woods out the back of my parents house. I went there with friends and I went there alone. You could see the train tracks and watch steam trains on a Sunday. I remember this land being there before my eyes, and old couples that walked past would comment on the beauty. “What beauty?” I always thought silently. Because as the steam trains rattled past, and the birds chirped their way to sexy time, and the worms dug their way in the soil and pooped out nutrients after eating up the autumn and winter debris, nothing, absaloutely nothing could quench my lack of thirst for life.

And now? Now I wish I never saved myself. I wish I didn’t go to hospital for treatment. I wish on that fateful night that my self harming got found out that I didn’t say a word about feeling unwell, that I remained tight lipped. I simply wish I let go, that I never tasted water and found thirst. The raw pain persists, and when I think I’ve purged it all out it comes back or something new just as intense, or more intense comes along and punches me in the stomach. Thirst or no thirst the pain persists. If I could turn back time, I’d kill myself long before I had a glimpse of hope. Hope and I don’t get along, I know she’s a lie and yet I try to keep in some sort of relationship with her. No matter how distant we seem to get.

Its time I let hope go. We can’t work. I don’t like her friend chance, I’m too much of a coward.

 

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