Everlasting

Vincent Van Gogh’s dying words: “The sadness will last forever.”

What a wonderful way to live, knowing this will never stop.

I’m sorry I’m not normal. That I can’t smile as easily or speak as freely. That I would rather sit by myself than in a crowd, would rather read than act, watch than participate.

I’m sorry I don’t live up to the word perfect. I’m sorry that the only way I could even come close is to end.

I’m sorry you don’t think the treatment is worth it. I’m sorry for making you waste your money. I’m sorry for being such a damn burden, even after all this time.

I’m sorry sometimes I wake up wishing I were dead or gone or someone else so that this lasting sadness will just go away.

I’m sorry you know about the scars on my arms. That you read my painful words scribbled into some long-forgotten journal. That on some level you know that sometimes your words will literally find their way to my body in the form of white, tough scar tissue.

I’m sorry for caring too much. Or not enough. Or too greatly or not at all. I’m sorry you have to deal with this. With me.

And I would make it so that you don’t have to deal anymore. So that you don’t waste any more money. I could do that. Hide. Float off in some never-ending sea. So you wouldn’t even have to spend money to bury me. Or for a service. But then you would cry and forget all this and complain about that. I’ll never make you happy.

You say you want me to stay around, but then you give me every reason not to. And I’m so confused.

I don’t know much, but I do know that Van Gogh was right. The sadness will last forever.

And, fuck it, I’m just tired.