This void inside me is incurable. There’s nothing that could fill that emptiness anymore. Part of me thinks that perhaps love could; that maybe it could fill me up with compassion and lace me with life. But a bigger part—the logical, realistic and slightly hopeless part of me—has long convinced me that I couldn’t be that lucky. That I would never find love—not even some other potential cure, and allow it to make me better. I’ll always be this way. I’ll always be spiraling down and there’ll never be such thing as an upward slope on my road anywhere anyway.