I want

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.

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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.