You killed yourself. And life began occurring in a sadistic state of perpetual misery. Days squandered, gazing into the chasm of mocking thoughts, scuttling through a haze of repressed optimism, dark mutterings chewing away at the smile that once lit up my darkened face. Waves of molten anger crashed around my mind, eroding the wall of hopeful sanity and collecting shards of misery and resentment. The salty waves whirring around and around until a concoction of my broken mind could no longer be eradicated through wolf-like howls of desperation into my sodden pillow. The only thing that could release the toxic emotion was a rusty knife tearing through my paper-like skin, painting ribbons across the ivory surface. But the memory of your death still haunts me, clutching from behind and slowly strangling me. How could I have let anyone close enough to make me feel this way? I deserve the burden of white-hot guilt chewing it's way out from inside of me.