Do you feel anything, he asked.

Sure I feel stuff.
I feel like crawling in my bed and dying.
I feel like screaming at everyone and everything beautiful and happy in the world, because I can't have that.
I feel like crying until there is no more saddness inside.
And since that's not possible, I feel like crying until I fall into a deep painful sleep.
I feel like stabbing and cutting and causing myself so much pain that I pass out.
I feel like taking all the posters on my wall, all the pictures, all the happy memories and tearing them to shreads in a mad fit.
I feel like throwing a tantrum. Kicking and screaming and throwing myself on the floor like a child.
I feel like yelling at every single person that dares come near me and never giving it a second thought.
I feel like punching the happy couple in both their faces.
I feel like running until my body physically breaks down and crumbles beneath me.
I feel like burning my house, my school, and everything else that ever meant anything to me down to the ground.
I feel like trashing every material thing that, in my ignorance, I ever found comfort in.
I feel like taking all my accomplishments, everything that I worked for, and flushing them down the toilet.
I feel like telling everyone all the bad things I've thought about them.
I feel like spreading this hate and rage to anyone who'll allow it.
I feel like dying, just to go to Hell and spit in the face of the devil himself.
I feel like giving up on everything that ever gave me hope and the strength to go on.

Do you feel anything, he asked.

More than you'll ever know.