March.

It's been a year now, so I decided to cut-up something I wrote a while back to make a new narrative out of it.
I don't particularly like doing this depressive stuff, it's just basic emotional drivel; but it seems an adequate enough time.

This was the worst night of my life.


It’s going to rain, she said,
so I went into the bathroom to cry.

I feel as though I can hide away inside,
but instead I walked back with her.

When I got home,
and we sat at the table eating, not talking.

I put my hand on her lap,
there was none.

I thought about just getting up and leaving,
in my underwear, in the rain.

She just sat there, cold,
so I brought my big black coat.

I always felt safe in that coat,
but she moved it away.


She had a shower,
I drank tea and cried.

I sat there for hours,
but I never told anyone what was wrong.

She hardly talked to me,
I said ok.

I made her toast,
I had a mental breakdown.

A shadowy figure,
trying to elicit some sympathy.

I spent the next few hours thinking of,
but I didn’t want her to think that anything was wrong.


In bed,
she didn’t talk to me.

It was raining,
lying next to her.

She fell asleep,
and I didn’t join her.

I researched depression and anxiety disorders,
and I was left awake.

I went out into the back yard,
I didn’t have the strength to try anything.

Hood over my head, hands in the pockets,
I turned away and moved myself right to the edge of the bed.


When she woke up,
I didn’t leave my room for three days.

I booked myself into therapy,
and she didn’t even see me to the door.

I said goodbye,
I should have gone home.

I barely kept it together on the train,
and cried.

I asked her what was wrong,
I could only think in extremes.

In the end,
she told me that she had switched off her feelings for me.


No one can see me.