An Empty Glass

I’m not coming here to celebrate. I’m not coming here to have a good time. I don’t come here searching for friends or to “hook up.” I come here to “cut” myself. To poison myself into oblivion.
My invisible wounds, hidden from all. They’ll never know the pain, nor will they see the anger, hatred, the hurt that runs deep.
I will keep my mask of faux happiness on. I’ll nod and smile to keep them at ease. Even be so bold to crack jokes, poke fun, or even attempt to leave witty notes.
Each throwback of the “good” elixir helps keep the “itch” subdued, while my mind runs rampant on the ways to meet my demise. The eternal conflict of Good vs. Evil that rages on within. The persistent nagging of “do it, do it, you son of a bitch,” an incessant itch that can’t be scratched, nor covered with topical cream.
All I can do is hide behind the faux mask, and live with the shame, and the guilt, while being torn apart at the seams; with no salvageable fabric, no needle and thread. A puzzle without the corner pieces.
But still. . .hope lives within. Not only will there be one day, when everything stops, and all the pain will go with it, but peace will come at last.

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