"Where are you?"

I am crushed beneath the weight of remembrance, the echo of your words, which makes its way into my lungs, creeping up through my veins, nauseating my existence the way venom would.
I always romanticized the idea of darkness and death, the mystic features that come along with them and the possible feeling of numbness and release that might emancipate me.

I thought about dying under the screeching tires of a roaring vehicle, oh, the exhilaration it would give! Sometimes, just sometimes, I would look under the speeding tires, almost leaping before them, but why didn't I?
You. You gave me sanity. You gave me a reason to keep going even amid pulsations of worthlessness and hopelessness.
When did you go from caressing my cheeks to turning your back to my tears? Where did you take off to, making yourself the reason why I want to give up?
Tell me, what do I do when my reason to breathe has taken away all the oxygen around me?
There are days when I feel too much and then those, where I feel nothing.
Sometimes, my chest aches with this ripping kind of heaviness, but the tears don't make their way out. Sometimes, my insides seem numb, but the tears won't stop.
They tell me you're doing fine. How could you be? How could you breathe so gloriously while I struggle, suffocating from your withdrawal?
My heart was like one of those ancient old kingdoms, with my walls built high, but somehow, you waged war with my conscience, and conquered me.
Why did you abandon me? Were you greedy for more? Or was I just not enough to make you stay? You pulled away, tearing me apart, leaving me in ruins.
Why?
Why do we make homes out of human beings? Darling, I want you to know, I am not a nomad, moving around and not settling in a place called home. Your arms were my refuge, the only place I could run to.
Where do I go, now that I'm sitting in the middle of a street which seems just as lifeless as me?
I'm tired. I'm ready to pass out.
Cheers to the hundred letters I've written to you but ended up throwing them into trash.
This one is no different.
Wishing you well.
With love and insecurities,
The forgotten one
-- She crumples the paper with the little energy she has left in her, tossing it into the bin which receives another one of her tear stained piece of recklessness.
She stumbles, holding her bottle of whiskey as she quivers, unable to hold herself. She collapses onto the road, the roughness clashing with the soft skin of her knees.
She looks up at the sky, throwing her arms into the air, "Home, where are you?"