Maybe I don’t know what I want, but I can say with certainty that this isn’t it.

A steady decline into a bottomless, numbing pit of resentment. No memory at all of feeling supported. Feelings of any kind are distant, really. I’ve been at the end of my rope for longer than you would ever believe.

That rope is a metaphor, of course. People don’t like to come right out and say they’ve lost their will to live. Or, to live like this. And so, it’s a rope.

A rope made of handkerchiefs and old belts. The knots are where he lies to me and the holes are where I tried to light myself on fire. It didn’t work. I tried to let go, too, and just fall into the bottomless. Turns out the rope saw it coming, and there’s a noose’s knot tied like a liar around my wrist.

I dangle. I drag. I contemplate the climb back up, but know it’s not a trek I can make alone.

How did I get here? When can I rest?

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