I was writing in my notebook while it rained on the pages.
People laughed at me as they walked by,
but that is okay.
I am very tired of having to be strong.
But mostly
I am just tired.

And: I want to go home. Home is quiet,
and there is patience. And
real love. And open ears.
I would bake and cry and
watch old movies and
use fancy skincare products and
walk outside and
drive too fast.

Also: I can’t do this again.
I am strands away from
completely unraveling.
I am now a closed book.
I
will
not
subject myself to this again.

I don’t want to be here anymore.