Screaming and Swearing (because I have nothing left)

I fucking hate this.
This unending game of waiting
for something to happen. I
fucking hate you
for not answering me,
for dismissing me
because it was easier for you.
Or maybe it wasn’t easy
but you still can sit there
silent
while I writhe with unsaid words,
holding them back
like a drunk holds back the vomit
in his alcoholic belly.
And I fucking hate myself
for not being able to let go.
Maybe you did love me.
No.
Fuck that.
You DID love me,
of that I’m sure.
And I’m pretty sure
you still do
but you’re just too damn good
to say it.
And, don’t get me wrong,
that actually makes me
love you more
for not wanting
to ruin lives and all,
but did you ever think
that maybe it’s not worth saving
or that it’s slowly dying
even though it wasn’t that alive
to begin with?
And I hate myself
for being so fucking weak
that I can’t just let you go,
give up this ridiculous fucking
love hangover
that grips me like an addiction.
I write to you and feel sick.
Yet I crave the words
pouring from my fingers.
I think about you
and I just want to stop,
wish I could find an antidote
for this fucking illness
that infests my
brain,
body,
heart.
But it keeps sucking me back down
in the undertow,
the inconceivable notion
that someday
your walls will crumble
and your voice
will find me
in the darkness.