He hates it.
Hates the look that haunts his eyes, hates the way he has to convince himself to get out of bed in the morning. Hates the fact that his thoughts, are his downfall. He hates the fact that he forgot how to feel alive, the fact that he can no longer find a reason to be.
He hates everything really.
He especially hates the fact, that out of all the people he could have chosen to hate for making him this way, he chose himself.
He is trapped in his own mind, tortured by his own thoughts, and he can feel the craziness setting in and he is powerless to stop it.
He is falling, fast, and he may be clinging onto sanity, but he's rapidly crossing the line. He wants so desperately for someone to grab his hand, to pull him back and ground him, but his arms are firmly locked at his sides, he will not allow himself to ask for help, cannot allow himself to be weak in their eyes.
His facade of strength is all he has left, he cannot bear to give that up. He's Too afraid to show them the real him, because what if the real him, is not enough.
How can it be?
The real him is broken way beyond repair.
We all know what happens to broken things, they get thrown in the trash where they belong.
Where he belongs.
He belongs there because, he's fairly certain that's where his heart is, because it was filled with so many cracks and not enough love, that one day it just shattered and he swept up the pieces only to discover, he couldn't be bothered putting them back together.
How pathetic that his heart means so little, to everyone, that they cannot see that it's missing.
He hates that.
He hates that he hates everything.
He hates who he has become, who the world turned him into.
He hates waking up every morning, and realizing, that yes, he is still breathing.
Because it's hard to live life when you have no real reason to. After all, what is the point in living, if you can no longer feel alive?