It's funny how you can live your whole life in the same place and never push forward. You'd think at some point the stillness would start to choke you but really, it's the people. It's you.

You are the problem, you outgrow your family and your friends and your love of watching the sun set rather than rise. You crave new beginnings, one-way train tickets and silence – only silence. Anything louder than the pounding of your heartbeat aggravates the creeping headache that your trusty ******* ibuprofen can't rid you of.

Somewhere along the line, who you are isn't enough.
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Nursing new habits isn't always a good thing.

Granted, some provide you with a sense of self, a reason to wake up every day for a little while, or at least until the snow melts into the early spring grass. Some habits warm you up like a great big mug of coffee, like your favourite song, like brushing hands with strangers.

Some habits hold you down at 5am when you're still crying. At times it feels so **** good to finally have someone agreeing with you that you don't even mind what it is they're agreeing with. You're two souls in your head, shaking hands on the fact that no one would miss you if you were dead, done, disappeared.

But you don't make plans; don't need 'em. You don't grab a knife or a bottle of pretty white pills, and you don't open your second-story window to crush your skull on the stone-hard January ground. Your hour-long showers aren't ****** razor-blade cover ups. Your long sleeves don't hide scars. On some days, your mother remarks that you look very pale however, and in that moment your ******-up baggy eyes do hide some secret slice of you that you'd rather not share with "the living". The unconditional love makes you feel guilty for all the crying fits, the self-addressed suicide notes and the black black thoughts.