Is it okay?

I don’t know if it’s okay anymore for me to ask how are you, but then, who cares. You know me, I’ll do exactly what I’m not supposed to do. And here I am, writing to you, knowing very well that this should be the last thing for me to do. So, how are you? Are you finally happy to see me this way? To see the marvelous destruction you created? To see a vulnerable, miserable me? I know you must probably be assuming that I hate you now, just like all the other things you assumed. But hate is something I can’t feel now. You know how when you warm up iron and when it can’t be heated anymore, it just glows. It sits in the hearth gracefully and glows. Out of all emotions, grateful would be the closest to how I feel about you, about us. I am grateful to you for making me realize how much of depth resides within me, how deeply I can love someone who never belonged to me. I am grateful to you for acquainting me with the strength it takes to forgive someone for our own sake. Sleepless nights have now become routine. Thoughts turning into nightmares. Hope turns into despair. Getting lost in the search for answers only to find the questions wrong. Wondering whether you think of me when someone speaks of chocolates or when that song comes on the radio or when you sit alone under the velvet skies having no one to say “look at the moon”. Because I do. I miss you every day, with every breath. Each second brings with it a pain unbearable for this little fragile body, shrinking it to an extent where it’s existence becomes questionable. Veins constructing infinitely, gushing blood out through the pen. A fist ruthlessly clenching my gut. I scream, shout for help, only to end up inaudible. I turn around and find the bloody hand to be no one else’s but mine.