love is all there is...

So I open it.

I find things in it that I had forgotten about. Feelings I had shoved in the back of my stupid brain, memories I want to forget flow over me. I feel like I am drowning now. I cant breathe. Why did I open it?

A letter. From him... actually both of them. Vivid pictures of arguing, hitting, crying... love and pain. Helplessness. Fear consumes me now. I want to forget this! My brain is screaming at me to close it. But I think, somewhere in this haze of emotion, that I must deal with this. I cant. It will kill me. I see a tiny notebook. I cant remember what this is, so I open it. Its a small journal. I remember all the people I left in the street, that I left to die. That I love and hate and loathe and cherish all at the same time. Why couldnt I SAVE THEM. I know what happened to them is all my fault. I should have been able to save them. I want to cry now. But I cant. I am broken or something.

I continue to go through the letters, feeling more and more panicy. One catches my eye, and I open it . It is written by me.. its in pink lettering. I had written it to my family . I see the word sorry and sorry and sorry over and over in it... It makes me hate myself.

All the other letters are from the boys, my brothers( well not in blood but in heart). My heart is shattering all over again at this very moment. I had forgotten the pain. I had pressed so far back as to pretend it didnt even exist. The memories are making my soul blister and I cant stand it. Where are they now? Are they ok? Dead? Hurt? Alone? Sad? Scared? Perhaps they robbed a store last night to feed the fiend and are locked up, alone, cold, going slowly insane. And Its my fault too.

I hate myself more than ever at this moment. I hate this fucking box of shit memories and emotions. I want to burn it. Catch it on fire. Make these things cease to exist. BUT I CANT. Im so fucking screwed up.

Poetry I find now. Old, and raw. I dont know if it even reads as poetry. It is agony on paper and I cant bring myself to read it. I dont want to read it. I hate it too.

Its part of the other me, the me I who really am not. The one who ruined her life and everyone elses. The one who failed. The one who failed to help her friends and herself.

The box is sitting next to me. I want to read whats in it. But I cant. I wont and musnt or I will go insane. 9 months I havent touch a needle, a drug, a razorblade to cut myself. I am empty now, which is what I need. 9 months of freedom from my fucking evil sins and stupidity. But it made me fat, and thats just worse. Can I ever get it right? I feel like I am standing on the edge of a bridge, about to dive, give up and give in... Goin back there would be death for me. And maybe I deserve it. Or maybe it will be the only thing to finally fix me, heal me, make me forget. Why cant I fucking forget! get this shit out of my head.

The room is spinning a bit now. Why did I go in that room and step into my past. Dirty sad past that haunts me and hunts me and I managed to escape it for a short time. Or so I thought. Amazingly, I cant even describe this because I dont want to see it later. I dont want to see whats in the fucking box, or who I left in that fucking box. STAY IN THE DAMN BOX.

And so I am empty today. And empty I will stay, because if I get comfortable again I am sure to do something worse than that. I am evil and stupid and bad. If I could turn into the wind and dance amongst the trees, free, I would cry in joy if I knew what that was. Am I even making sense? I feel like I have stepped into an alternate reality, inside my head, in a nightmare and I cant get out. What should I do with this fucking box of sin and trash?