I find myself mesmerized by the light reflecting off brass door knobs, lulled into whispered thought by the churning of the washing machine. I begin to count how many times the cursor will blink before more words bleed out of my fingertips.
But there are no words. Just this feeling of barely breathing, my heart burrowing deep, refusing to admit: I want.
I want you to love me because I cannot love myself.
I want you to cup my heart in your hands and breathe life into it.
I want you to want me so I know I am worthy.
I guess I thought coming here was washing everything clean, starting off fresh. But every morning I wake up with blurring disappointment to find, I. am. still. here. Same scars, same mistakes, same struggles.
It was foolish of me to think this would be easy. Naive of me to think the key to finding myself was simply going elsewhere.
Sorry, friends. I get tired of being tired. Years and years of being tired.
But I will try again tomorrow.