To the lonely broken.

This is a message to all the loners, the broken hearts, the broken souls.
To the ones who walk silently, carrying the weight of despair. We see the world differently—so alone.

I was whole once. I had a love that enraptured me—a love I could speak to, make love to, and bare my soul to. But in a fleeting moment, on a night I wasn’t there, everything changed. The right words from someone else were all it took for her to flip the switch. And suddenly, nothing was as it had been.

I slept blissfully, unaware that the world I knew had already crumbled. By the time I realized it, the message had arrived. And everything was gone.

I’ve never fallen so deep into darkness. My thoughts bounced around inside me, colliding and shattering, hitting me over and over. I couldn’t stop them. The drink found my lips easily, the nicotine stained my fingers. I didn’t feel the toxins—it was a welcomed break from the pain.

Betrayed, I became an empty husk. I watch myself now, but I’m no longer me. When I look in the mirror, I don’t see myself. I see an empty soul, trapped by regret. If only I’d done more... I wouldn’t be here.

I could stand on a cliff, look down, and see endless darkness. I could feel the relief—the end of pain. I think about that when I reach the bottom of a bottle, the burn pouring down my throat. The high is addictive—it pulls the pain away for a little while. But the alcohol runs out. The nicotine runs out. And then it’s just me again, biting down, as if I can gnaw my way out of this hollow.

Every trip to the store is a cruel display. Couples shop together, laughing, making mundane, pointless chatter. I was that once. I remember that as I grab my 18-pack of beer. I remember the way swans glide in pairs—effortless and serene.

But young love always fades. Eventually, someone else takes it away from you. I’d rather be broke and dead than feel that sting again. There’s no pain like love lost.

My friends mirror my thoughts—they all end up alone, eventually. I wonder how I should spend my youth, what I should do with my potential. But who wants a washed-up, drunk 40-year-old, begging for a second chance? There are so many younger, brighter people fighting for the same dreams. I can’t even acknowledge it anymore.

What future does a man have when his soul has been ripped from him? What’s left for someone too tired of seeing the same things over and over again? Just an empty hole in the dark... and a sad bartender mourning the profits of a life wasted