Hollow

Just this morning I penned a letter I didn't send.

I poured out my deepest thoughts, was about to reveal this side, this vulnerable side of mine, but... ...this past few days had been exhausting. Draining. It's wearing me thin, shuttling to and fro the hospital. She's doing better now, much better, today's the 3rd day of not eating, she lost weight. Lips dry, and pale. Lifeless eyes, with spiritless movements. She woke up when I stepped into the room, though I did with soft and light steps. I tried to crack a joke or two, she smiled, I teased, relieved. So much relief.

Just yesterday I heard her yelped in pain before the 1st surgery, how much it pains my heart, oh how it tugs at my soul. How should I even describe it? Helpless? Empty? Hollow. I took my keys out and opened the bottle with the familiar green lever. Surprise me, god, surprise me. The games you're playing.

I did it again didn't I? Trusting someone I shouldn't have. It's this constant, never-ending hollowness that fills me. What irony huh. This wrenching heartsink. I hear sniffs, far away. Distant. No, not from me. Not from the new me.

p.s: The consolation? I've hit rock-bottom dear god, and I cant go any lower.