I’m leaving — and you swear it means I’m choosing
to watch your world collapse, like I want to see you losing.
But I’m only walking toward the dream I buried deep beneath your rules,
the one you mocked as childish, the one you called a fool’s.
You say I’m cold, ungrateful, cruel —
but you don’t see the way you pull
my ribs apart with every plea,
the way you weaponize your need for me.
You solved my storms, you held my hands,
you taught me how to breathe and stand,
but now you clutch my shadow tight
and call it love to dim my light.
I’m leaving, I’m gone, I’m out —
and every step is soaked in doubt.
My friends, my family, every face,
the ghosts that shaped my childhood place —
I’m losing all of them at once,
and still you say I’m wrong.
You say I’m breaking everything,
but you’re the one who held me back so long.
You tell me “go find happy,” then you beg me not to try,
you say you’ll be alone without me — but you never ask me why
my lungs collapse inside this house,
why silence tastes like rust,
why every time I reach for hope
you grind it into dust.
Why do you hate me for it?
Why does my dream offend you so?
Why does every time I rise
become another reason not to go?
These scars you see on me — they’re maps of where I’ve been,
but you keep tearing them back open just to pull me in again.
You say it’s out of love, but love should never feel like chains,
should never make me bleed to prove
I’m worthy of your pains.
I’ve tried to tell you what I want,
I’ve tried to show you who I am,
but you only hear the child you raised,
not the grown one with a plan.
Do you really love me if you’d rather keep me small?
Do you love me head to toe, or just the version that would crawl?
Do you care about my heartbeat, or the comfort of my stay?
Do you want me for my future, or the child you shaped from clay?
You didn’t mean to ruin me — I know that wasn’t your intent.
But love can turn to shackles when it’s tangled with resentment.
Accident or not, the truth is carved in bone:
I have to go. I have to leave.
I have to find my home.
This house has been a cage to me since I was barely grown,
and every time I reached for light, you tightened what you owned.
You say you’re scared of losing me,
but you already lost the child you knew —
I grew into someone aching
for a world beyond your view.
Still — I loved the way you held me,
the lullabies you used to hum,
the warmth that wrapped around me
when the world felt cold and numb.
I loved the way you roared at me,
the way you taught me right from wrong,
the way you made me feel like I
belonged to something strong.
But love that cages isn’t love —
it’s fear dressed up as care.
It’s wanting me beside you
more than wanting me somewhere.
And that’s why this is killing me —
to thank you as I go,
to love you while I’m leaving,
to break the only home I know.
But I am leaving.
Not to hurt you.
Not to spite you.
Not to run.
I’m leaving
because staying
means I’ll never
become anyone.
I’m leaving
because breathing
in this house
has come undone.
I’m leaving
because loving you
should not require
losing me.
I’m leaving
because finally
I’m choosing
who I’m meant to be.
And maybe someday you’ll forgive me,
or maybe you’ll stay cold as stone —
but I’m walking toward the life I dreamed,
toward the place I’ll call my own.
I’m leaving my home —
the one that raised me,
the one that caged me,
the one that loved me,
the one that blamed me.
I’m leaving
because I have to.
Because I want to.
Because it’s time.
And though you hate me for it now,
this leaving is still mine.
May 9
May 9, 2026 at 3:54 PM UTC
I’m leaving — and you swear it means I’m choosing
to watch your world collapse, like I want to see you losing.
But I’m only walking toward the dream I buried deep beneath your rules,
the one you mocked as childish, the one you called a fool’s.
You say I’m cold, ungrateful, cruel —
but you don’t see the way you pull
my ribs apart with every plea,
the way you weaponize your need for me.
You solved my storms, you held my hands,
you taught me how to breathe and stand,
but now you clutch my shadow tight
and call it love to dim my light.
I’m leaving, I’m gone, I’m out —
and every step is soaked in doubt.
My friends, my family, every face,
the ghosts that shaped my childhood place —
I’m losing all of them at once,
and still you say I’m wrong.
You say I’m breaking everything,
but you’re the one who held me back so long.
You tell me “go find happy,” then you beg me not to try,
you say you’ll be alone without me — but you never ask me why
my lungs collapse inside this house,
why silence tastes like rust,
why every time I reach for hope
you grind it into dust.
Why do you hate me for it?
Why does my dream offend you so?
Why does every time I rise
become another reason not to go?
These scars you see on me — they’re maps of where I’ve been,
but you keep tearing them back open just to pull me in again.
You say it’s out of love, but love should never feel like chains,
should never make me bleed to prove
I’m worthy of your pains.
I’ve tried to tell you what I want,
I’ve tried to show you who I am,
but you only hear the child you raised,
not the grown one with a plan.
Do you really love me if you’d rather keep me small?
Do you love me head to toe, or just the version that would crawl?
Do you care about my heartbeat, or the comfort of my stay?
Do you want me for my future, or the child you shaped from clay?
You didn’t mean to ruin me — I know that wasn’t your intent.
But love can turn to shackles when it’s tangled with resentment.
Accident or not, the truth is carved in bone:
I have to go. I have to leave.
I have to find my home.
This house has been a cage to me since I was barely grown,
and every time I reached for light, you tightened what you owned.
You say you’re scared of losing me,
but you already lost the child you knew —
I grew into someone aching
for a world beyond your view.
Still — I loved the way you held me,
the lullabies you used to hum,
the warmth that wrapped around me
when the world felt cold and numb.
I loved the way you roared at me,
the way you taught me right from wrong,
the way you made me feel like I
belonged to something strong.
But love that cages isn’t love —
it’s fear dressed up as care.
It’s wanting me beside you
more than wanting me somewhere.
And that’s why this is killing me —
to thank you as I go,
to love you while I’m leaving,
to break the only home I know.
But I am leaving.
Not to hurt you.
Not to spite you.
Not to run.
I’m leaving
because staying
means I’ll never
become anyone.
I’m leaving
because breathing
in this house
has come undone.
I’m leaving
because loving you
should not require
losing me.
I’m leaving
because finally
I’m choosing
who I’m meant to be.
And maybe someday you’ll forgive me,
or maybe you’ll stay cold as stone —
but I’m walking toward the life I dreamed,
toward the place I’ll call my own.
I’m leaving my home —
the one that raised me,
the one that caged me,
the one that loved me,
the one that blamed me.
I’m leaving
because I have to.
Because I want to.
Because it’s time.
And though you hate me for it now,
this leaving is still mine.
