still, sick and dead, yet I speak

For this night I write. Not as a man but a being. I write for all to know. I write as a speaker for the dead. For I feel I am dead. Maybe even dyeing and for All that I have been through and more. It has battered at me, yelled for something. I always questioned what?

I could not come to a point where I can find this truth. This one thing stood out before all other things. I don’t know how I will take it. What I will do. I’m trying to find since in a world of wrong.

Her forgiveness was wanted. She wanted to tell me she loved me. Because after so long she still loved me.

I can’t find words that can say how this makes me feel. I’m sad by it; I’m happy; I’m ruined in so many ways. I feel as if she has something I want. Something I want back. Will is not something I have in short demand. I pride myself on my will. Still, I can’t find what makes me feel as if I’m sick or dyeing.

She ran to me with open arms then put them away after seeing my face. She knew I still had hate for her, for what she did to me. Then why do I feel like I need to try this again? Why do I feel I need to let her back in to my world?

I think… the feeling; the sickness is my heart beating again. She has one of the small pieces it broke into. I never thought I would see a piece of that wretched heart again.