Dear you;

I wish you could read this, that I had a way to send this letter to you. I wish that you could open it and realize how very not okay I am, that you could realize for just a moment that pretending it's okay doesn't make it okay, that you could hold me tight and make everything all better. I wish that I could express how empty I feel, how cold and alone even in the most crowded rooms. I wish the tight ball in my stomach would loosen, let me speak, and that I could stop crying at every little thing (even the things that mean nothing).

I wish you could listen as I told you what it's like, to have tears as a constant companion, to fear every time someone is a little late coming home. I wish I could show you what it's like to have anger and sadness and fear, but never joy, never excitement... never anything I can't fake.

I wish I could tell you in a prettier way how used to the taste of snot and salt I am, but crying isn't a pretty thing. I wish that I could explain how it feels to always be inadequate, to be cruel and petty even though I don't like it. I wish I could let you feel how much I hate who I am and how much I can't control me. I wish I knew what was wrong with me- I wish you knew what was wrong with me.

I wish my last thoughts before falling asleep each night didn't revolve around not waking up.

I wish you could fix me, make me who I used to be.

I wish that you were here.

I wish that you were real.

Me.