if i died tonight

i would want the world to know why. this is what i would tell it:
it was not her. she didn't kill me. not this time. she was still sleeping, or maybe sitting by idly, laughing at the irony that after all this, it was me, not her. but the moment i ceased to exist, so did she, though i know she doesn't mind.
it was only because i was tired. tired of all the photographs. it is as if much of my life has been a dream, and only the pain was real. i don't know how i got the photographs to prove it though. i don't know how i imagined happiness if i never actually found any, so there must have been an inkling of it somewhere. i was not miserable at the end. if i were, it would be her. and i saw hope. hope that i would make something of me, that i would not live in misery. but what would be the point if i could not hold the things that were precious to me? how could i really live my whole life in apathy or mediocrity? i got tired of running away, but i had nothing left to come back to. the up and down was old, and the smell of age brought moths that ate my soul. pieces of me were crumbling into dust, a dust that should not be seen until i'd been whole. finished. and i was just tired of willing myself to survive a day at a time.