You were a part of me, and now I am part of nothing.

With all my success, my progress, my plans for the future, life is still more a chore than anything else. No, it's not a struggle. But I do. I do anyway.

Maybe it's a mental defect, just like my inability to connect with others is a social defect. But still, I don't connect with others, and if I don't better the life of someone I care about, I might as well be dead.

And yes, I would go angry. With a "this will show you" to everyone who promised, or contracted, to love me always. And who, of course, were lying. Who choose their ugly subsequent girlfriends, and their weak minded delusions, and their jobless married-to-someone-else boyfriends who stay at home playing video games all day.

I go to work, and I smile, and I joke about how antisocial I am. I post messages on Craigslist asking for etiquette advice for dealing with others, and I pretend to be generous and kind. But really, I hate you for making demands on me. I hate you for not really giving a shit about me the way someone should. For ignoring all my cries for help.

And were I to die, I believe they would remember my hints and feel sorry, because they possess a moral responsibility I do not feel myself. It is this generic humanity of theirs that causes me to hate them. Of course they would feel sad for me, since they would feel sad for anyone. But it wouldn't be the loss of me in particular that would make them feel sad.

I want to scream until I lose my voice, to slash myself until I'm no longer conscious. No vessel should be this empty.

Fuck you. You don't deserve the intense love of someone who wakes up every morning and plays a productive member of society so you won't know how fucked up she is.

And who prays, the halting prayers of an atheist reaching out to the forces of the Universe, for your health and happiness above all, as penance for all the harm she's caused the world. She feels inadequate to ask for anything for herself, since that would be weakness and despicable. But she calls out to ask on your behalf, when she's so lonely she just wants it all to end but wants to do something good in the meantime. That something good is wishing all the goodness she might ask for herself onto you.

And who avoids suicide because she knows how traumatized you were the last time someone you knew committed it, and because she thinks it might break you. But who fears, just a little, that it wouldn't. That you'd just go on living your useless empty life, just as before, because maybe you're already broken. Passionless. Empty just like she is, but without the strength to end the charade. And maybe, without even the realization of just how hollow those late nights at the office and hours spent reading the newspaper are.

I hate you, because you are me without dissatisfaction. Without the capacity for change and the awareness thereof. And yet, without you there is really no reason to go on. No reason at all, of my own. And maybe that's the most hateful.