I am lucky.

It continues to amaze me that someone so insignificant and flawed as me could end up with someone so wonderful.

But I am damaged.

I long ago gave up on the hope that someone would be able to fix me. Even you don't know the casualties my heart has taken.

And I am weak.

I wish I could pull myself up and move past it, but I can't. I thrive on the self-pity I give myself.

You deserve better, much better than someone like me. A partner that can push you up, rather than pull you down.

The end is inevitable. I want you to leave, so you will be happy, but I am selfish and keep you to myself.

But I want you to be happy.

So I won't mention to you about the way he comes home, drunken and angry and screaming, leaving us to cower in our bedrooms.

I won't tell you about the times I've fallen asleep crying because I believe no one would miss me.

I won't let you know that there is a bottle of pills that sits in my pillowcase, in case one night I can't take it anymore.

The worthless feeling inside of me, I can deal with. But the day you are unhappy because of me? That is the day that the bottle becomes empty.