I want to leave.

it’s been days of returning home to a melancholy so cantankerously foreign. the melancholy of a dissolving future, an annihilation of vivid dreams, the dissolution of what was once real.

it’s been days of not being able to eat a morsel of food without feeling the gnawing pain at the pit of my stomach. the sparkle in my eye fading from suddenly not giving a damn about most of the things I cared so much about before.

there’s a screaming inner child in me. she can’t take it anymore. she wants to leave.

it feels easy in theory. I could just pack my bags and leave, find myself in an airplane arriving in the bitterness of November and to all this calming snow.  the coldness would freeze my anger for a while, the grey skies would turn the vividness of all these conflicting thoughts into a monocolour scheme. I’d feel calmer, for sure. more stable. I know I’ll be okay. at least much better than here.

the hardest thing perhaps is the fact that I must give up on love— and love myself instead.

I’d wasted all this time and all my heart. I’ve exhausted all my might just for this, and now I have to leave it all behind. for God’s sake, I don’t even know who I am. I don’t know if I had always been this isolated, this kind, this selfless. I’m not sure if it’s really me after all this manipulative brainwashing.

You wouldn’t recognise me— those sharper eyes, my angled physique, a face that smiles much less than before. but it doesn’t matter now, love, does it? whatever they call me, I have you.

you tell me it isn’t an escape, but an earned right to be this demanding, to want it to end now. you’re on fire too, but it soon gets engulfed by the tidal waves of universal love— and you know it will be alright, even with the wait.

what if I don’t want to wait?

still, would I be able to take in a few more months of this? so much of this fighting is already bleeding me out, paling the rose petals embedded in every sparkly bit of me. and every inch of my skin that misses you is peeling away in fatigue, in solemn patience and the unduly unendurable sensation that comes with letting go. 

what if I could really do it?

what’s sickening me is not knowing the difference between the voice of intuition and betrayal. the part of me that feels betrayed wants to take action now. there’s a calmer, surrendered voice in the background that tells me to keep going and waiting. but that voice is countered with the fact that every day that passes by leaves me in much more distress, ailment and a heart so starved and plagued.

I feel it in me to protect my heart more than anything. alas, it is all I have.