I read when I want to kill time. I read when I get stressed. I read when I’m angry. I read as my mom shouts at me for skipping meals and choosing books. I read in an attempt to slip away from the monotony of existence.
I got tired of you. I got tired of us.
From the backseat of the car, love looks like a routine of stealing kisses at a stoplight, sharing bold, burning sight, laughing, panting, craving, shouting, fighting, crying.
I’m tired of thinking lowly of myself and of myself thinking highly of others. I’m tired of insecurities becoming my best friend and of the toxin I am becoming.
If you find yourself thinking of running back to him, please for once, do it.
You have to learn to let go. Let go of the passerby who did not choose you, who tossed you aside, who made you smile for a while, who helped you grow. Only then you’ll learn to become your own home.