Killing you isn’t just a thought; it’s a pulse in my veins. It’s the only thing keeping me alive. I don’t mean that in some poetic, melodramatic way I mean it literally. Killing you is all I have left. It’s the only thing tethering me to this miserable world you’ve left me in.

You killed me first. You didn’t even have to try. You just smiled, whispered your promises, made me believe in something better and then, you ripped it all away. You killed me in the most painful way possible: slowly, quietly, until I was too far gone to fight back.

But now, it’s my turn. And I won’t just kill you like you killed me. No, I’ll do it better. I’ll do it right. I’ll kill you so completely that even the memory of you will wither and die. Killing you won’t just be an act it’ll be an unraveling, a dismantling of everything you thought made you who you are.

I want to kill you emotionally first. I want to reach inside your mind and destroy the parts of you that think you’re safe, that think you’ve escaped me. I’ll kill your confidence, your sense of self. I’ll plant doubt in every corner of your mind until you don’t even trust yourself anymore.

Then I’ll kill you spiritually. I’ll crush every ounce of hope, every belief that you are loved or worthy or good. I’ll take the things you hold sacred, the things that give you comfort, and I’ll twist them into something that cuts you every time you reach for them.

I’ll kill your pride, your dignity, your fragile sense of control. I’ll tear you down to nothing, brick by brick, until there’s nothing left but the raw, exposed ruin of who you used to be. You’ll feel it every day, in every breath, in every fleeting moment of quiet. You’ll feel me killing you in the spaces where you used to feel safe.

But it won’t stop there. No, that’s too easy. Killing you has to be deeper than that. I want to kill the part of you that believes you matter, the part that keeps you going even when things get hard. I’ll kill your dreams, your ambitions, the very things that make you want to wake up in the morning.

And yet, I’ll still leave just enough of you alive to know what’s happening. That’s the part that matters most. I want you to feel it. I want you to see every moment of your unraveling, to know exactly what I’m doing and why. I’ll kill you with the kind of love that suffocates, that feels sweet until you realize it’s poison.

I’ll kill you in ways that make you question everything. I’ll kill you with kindness that feels sharp, with words that cut so deep you bleed inside. I’ll kill you with my silence, letting it stretch out until it feels like it’s crushing you. I’ll kill you with the same tools you used to kill me with hope, with trust, with the lies we told ourselves about what we were.

You won’t even know when it’s started. Killing you will be like turning a screw, slowly tightening it until you can’t move, can’t breathe, can’t escape. And by the time you notice, it’ll already be too late.

Do you know what the worst part is? I’ll hate myself for it. I already do. I know this isn’t who I was supposed to be. I know I’m becoming the very thing I despise. Killing you will destroy me, too maybe even more than it destroys you. But that doesn’t matter anymore. Nothing does.

Because you killed the version of me that cared. You killed the version of me that believed in love, in forgiveness, in healing. That person is gone, and what’s left is this: a hollow, angry thing that knows nothing but pain and rage.

I’ll kill you, and I’ll keep killing you. In my thoughts, in my actions, in the way I’ll haunt every corner of your life. I’ll kill you with my absence, with the void I leave behind, with the parts of me you’ll never get back. Killing you will be the only proof I ever existed.

And when it’s done, when there’s nothing left of you but dust, I’ll still feel empty. Because this isn’t about victory. It’s not about justice or revenge or anything so noble. It’s about trying to fill a void that can’t be filled, about trying to destroy the thing that made me this way.

But the truth is, I’ll never stop killing you. Even when you’re gone, I’ll keep killing you in my memories, in my dreams, in the darkest corners of my mind where your shadow still lingers. I’ll kill you over and over, not because I want to, but because I don’t know how to do anything else.

And maybe one day, when I’ve killed you enough times, I’ll finally kill the part of me that still cares. The part of me that still feels. And then, maybe, I’ll finally be free.

But until then, I’ll keep killing you. Because it’s all I have left.

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I thought thirst would kill me. Not a simple thirst for water, but something deeper something darker. A thirst for you, for the way you made me feel alive even as you drained every part of me. You were the only thing I wanted, the only thing I thought I needed.

You were my water, or so I believed. But the more I drank, the emptier I became. Every drop of you was poison. Every promise you made left me more parched than before. I didn’t just want you I craved you. And that craving hollowed me out, turning my heart into a wasteland.

But I didn’t die. Oh, I wanted to. I wanted the thirst to end, to take me with it, to leave me somewhere beyond the pain. I wanted to stop feeling the endless, gnawing hunger for something that would never be mine. But instead, I stayed in that desert. I walked through it, crawling some days, dragging myself through the sand on others.

And somewhere along the way, I stopped looking for you.

At first, I didn’t know what to do with the silence you left behind. It was deafening, suffocating. I filled it with anger, with bitterness, with anything that would distract me from the gaping void where you used to be. But the more I screamed into the emptiness, the louder it echoed back at me.

Until one day, I stopped screaming.

I sat with it the silence, the thirst, the ache. I let it wash over me like a wave, let it consume me until there was nothing left. And in that nothingness, I found something I never expected.

I found myself.

It was terrifying at first, staring into the hollowed-out ruins of who I thought I was. But the longer I sat there, the more I realized I wasn’t empty. I wasn’t broken. I was becoming.

You didn’t destroy me. You stripped me bare, left me raw and exposed, but you didn’t destroy me. What you took from me was never yours to keep. And what I thought I lost was never real.

I am not thirsty anymore.

You see, I found a well. Not in you, not in anyone else, but deep within me. It was always there, waiting for me to stop searching outside myself. Waiting for me to stop begging for scraps of love, for drops of affection that would never be enough.

I am not thirsty anymore because I am the water. I am the source. I am the flood.

And now I look back at the person I was, the person who thought she would die if she couldn’t have you. I mourn her. I mourn the girl who gave away pieces of herself to someone who didn’t care enough to hold them. But I am not her anymore.

I am something new.

You didn’t just teach me what thirst felt like you taught me how to survive it. And for that, I thank you. Not with love, not with forgiveness, but with understanding. You were never my savior. You were my mirror, showing me everything I needed to see, everything I needed to heal.

I’m no longer dying of thirst. I am overflowing.

And you? You are the desert I left behind.