If I can't be brave enough to follow up my ideals, if I can't forsake something I don't even like, and in not doing so, relenquish someone I love, then how can I feel hard done by? All the hopeful words that I have spoken, all the naive promises to myself that I exhaled became air, and dissipated. It's nature, simply put, and I can't see how I thought I could evade it, even just this once. I never have before.

Even now, this is cowardice; If this goes unseen, I will claim a failed effort, a wasted plea. I will be a liar; this is no profession; this is a secret, a hidden outburst designed to live in the dark. If she reads this, she'll either be too far away, or she'll be on the edge of leaving. These are the words no-one should be unable to respond to, and yet with my timing, and half hearted intent, that is exactly what they shall become. I don't feel like I've won anything, and nor should I. No tables have been turned, no blame has been shifted. I remain the idiot I've always been, I am in the wrong no matter what my instinct for wellbeing tells me, and now I am merely able to add calculated spite and well positioned callousness, disguised to some perhaps as a self-aware cry for pity, to my pallette.

I fear coming across as a victim here, even though you could argue against me and say that I am. I am not a victim of her, this is for certain, and I will not hear otherwise. She has done nothing except live the life I wish I could be brave enough to lead. We are cut from the same ragged cloth and yet I unravel whilst she floats on the breeze. In the quiet part of my mind which never speaks up loud enough to be listened to, I knew this would happen. For so long, all my dreams have ended up Catholicised abortions, murdered when they should have lived, and it is I who am the killer.

I have done nothing to deserve a love that is anything more than unrequited. I have done nothing to earn that which I want most, and I have thrown away every chance I have ever been given. Despite what else can be said about me elsewhere, here, I have failed over and over again. And these phrases, laid down to beguile, all these words gathering speed until they hit the full stop and explode, blasting coloured shrapnel from the page, are just distractions from this.

At 1.03am, tonight, I can't think about much except giving up, and this is more serious than it has ever felt.