God is dead.

I hate this empty, aching feeling. I hate when waking up is the hardest part. I hate that I can't fix it. I hate that I can't simultaneously paint and write, because they are perfect counterparts; to say what can be said and show what never will be. I hate that you'll never read this. I need you to so much, but I'd hate it if you did.

I hate myself when I'm weak, but that night when I couldn't breathe and I couldn't sleep and I couldn't choke down the alcohol because I had work.. I wish no one would ever have to feel that way. On the other side, hiding in the dark under your red blanket, grasping your shoulder blades, your hands on my hips and holding so violently tight, trying not to cry but it's home and it hurt but it was real and we were alive.

Everyone should feel that once.