Was it really that bad?
The other night, while I was trying to get to bed, I think of the boy again. I don’t know why, but nowadays it seems like a habit to me. Perhaps my body is getting really used to this by now. I mean, how can it not be?
For the past 9 months I have been trying, trying to get a hold of myself, trying to grip on to something. Nothing.
For the past 9 months, all I could think was, how can I continue to live like this, how could I continue to do anything. I was afraid; afraid to get out and have fun, afraid to make new friends because I was scared that I might fall in love again. I was afraid of falling in love.
I thought it would be a good thing, to fall in love again, to be kissing someone, getting kissed back. If only my pillow could hug me back when I hug my pillow, if only that magical moment happens, I would not mind just hugging on to my pillow.
Yes, I was thinking about it, should I just go away in an accident? But I was afraid of pain. What if I wasn’t going fast enough, what if I had to suffer later? What if, I destroyed my face? NO!
I don’t want that. I want to die in an open casket, I want people to see my last look, I want people to miss me, but I am dead, would I still feel that way? I doubt.
I am afraid of dying, and yet, there is this part of me that says I want to be.
I want to be kissed, I want to be loved. I want to be hugged.
That’s all I want.