I'm writing and she's sleeping next to me and I'm thinking of who I used to be
Objectively, but there's still a hint of moisture in my eyes.
I don't know how I changed, if not for her.
Am I running away from my problems? Becoming a self-effacing mess of locked-up doors and staunch denial? Am I still depressed and cynical and misanthropic and sadistic and manipulative and EVIL?
Am I living a lie of happiness?
I don't think I am.
She makes me happy.
But does that mean I can never be happy on my own? Does that mean I'm broken and overly dependent, or does it just mean that she's my other half, filling the cracks where logic fails and emotion escapes its jail to **** with my mind? If she's my other half, I don't need to worry about being happy on my own, right?
She's my other half.
I'm only complete with her.
But is that how it ought to be?
Yeah. I think so.
I think I'm okay
I think I'm okay
I think I'm okay