This aching pain dwelling within my soul, with every memorie.. with every breath forced into these lungs.. never ceasing to stop. I attempt to create happiness, and find that of witch i had lost. But there never was any. My eyes a waterfall, a well never running dry, a puddle on the paper in witch we speak. Writing this letter for the last time to a broken home, as my soul bleeds in a dark crimson red pooling around my body. My weak fragile body, broken and bruised, skin without color. I'm living, yet I'm dead, skin so pail, eyes so.. so unreal.. no emotion behind them. Nothing will ever be the same, if there's one thing he's taught me.. it's that hate is not the opposite of love, because in hate there is still caring. Anger, no apathy, apathy is the opposite of love, and apathy is the cause of my empty soul. My enemy.