As I lie here on the floor, I know there is a hell, and it does not wait for those who die. Broken and bleeding, bruised, scarred, torn and shredded, I wait in agony, for what was sure to be the final blow. Only, in reality, no bruises mark my flesh. No cuts, no wounds. My scars are emotional. My bruises, mental. No physical injuries for me – my life is not that kind. I am broken, but internally.

They ripped away the last shred of my humanity long ago; so long ago that the minutes and hours and days all blurred into one, and I cannot remember the last time I felt anything other than pain, pain and anger and self-pity and self-loathing and all the other emotions that fill the darker side of the spectrum. No love for me, no happiness – I can barely even understand those concepts now, let alone feel them. I long for release, long for the torrent of pain to wash away into blissful nothingness.

It leaves me empty, sex. Afterwards, all I feel is this sense of emptiness, like I'm hollow inside. As if someone has just reached a hand down my throat and pulled out everything that makes me feel. In some perverse way, I think that's why I do it whenever and with whoever I can. I wish I could say that I'm trying to find the person that doesn't leave me empty, that that's the reason I fuck anyone who will have me. But truthfully, I crave the emptiness. I long for it, like others long for the completion that sex brings to them. And sex gives me the release that I long for. The emptiness replaces the pain, for a brief amount of time. But it's too brief, and soon, the pain seeps back in, consuming my being until all I can do is find anyone who will take me, anyone at all, and bring back the emptiness.

Like I said, I wish I could claim to be searching for completion, like everyone else. Searching for the one person who wont leave me empty, searching for the person who will replace the pain not with nothingness, but with joy, or happiness, or contentment. But the truth is, I had completion once. And I know that all others would pale in comparison if I could allow myself to feel afterwards. And the pain comes from knowing that I can only have emptiness, and I seek emptiness as release from the pain. It's a vicious circle that I can never break from, like the snake that consumes its tail to survive. A catch 22, the circle of life.... whatever metaphor you want to apply to it.

He brought me to this. He did, and she did, and they all did. They did it out of concern for him, and to some extent, her. They pushed me aside and rejected me, and it never occurred to them that it was not him that needed them, it was me. Tender and fragile after her, I needed them to save me. But they didn't see me, only him, and in the end the only kindness they could give me was pity.

I can understand her motives more than the rest. In some twisted way, she wanted to be me. I had him, I had them, I was everything she was not. And so, she, despite being my destroyer, is the one I feel for the most. When I can feel. She destroyed me, but only because, simply by existing, I had destroyed her. I had shattered this illusion that she had arrived with; I had destroyed all her beliefs with the simple act of loving him, and having my love returned. And eventually, all she could do to save herself was to destroy me. Isn't survival a bitch?

In a way, it is him that I hate the most. As if he had control over his love for me, as if he could have stopped me from loving him somehow. As if he could have ever made a difference. But truthfully, I hate him because I never could hate him, because I loved him so strongly and so completely that I thought nothing could ever break us. And most of all, because something did. I hate him because in the end, our love wasn't as strong as we thought, and looking back, could never have been. I hate him because I have convinced myself he failed me, he didn't love me enough. And because I cannot admit to myself that maybe, just maybe, I failed him too.