I spent two years putting myself back together. I carefully glued each piece and created some semblance of my old self. I rebuilt my walls, brick by brick, and told myself I was better this way. Better alone.
I used to know every corner of your mind like it was my home but now I could pass you on the street without even a hint of recognition.
Heartbreak is patience. Agonizing patience. It is the belief that things will get better. In a month – it will get better. In six months – I think it’s getting better. In a year – why is it not fucking better?
I’m still a kid though… aren’t I? I still consider my parent’s house my home, I still sleep with the lights on, I still don’t know what the hell taxes are. I still talk about what I want to do when I grow up as if it’s not two years away.