Back to the place I didn't grow in, back to the pains and mistakes, back to the loneliness, the emptiness and the waiting to be alone to hear my own thoughts. Silent pressure.
Hidden in the toilet of a house I didn't know, of a family I don't truly belong to, away from your incessant words. They might me thinking I'm so weird.
And to realize that a family in London loved me more than this, breaks my heart. They listened, they were interested, they respected me. Here I'm just a tail to tag along, here I'm forced to be a listener, here I don't matter yet the pressure to perform is heavy.
Boundaries come to mind, but in the fear of no longer being loved I quietly agree, overstep myself while I think further and see that this is not love, nor healthy.
I have been tired for weeks, slave of my own fears of loneliness while I'm already alone. Then your friends and the life we could have come to me as my heart weeps while my face smiles because I don't have what you do and being the girlfriend once more will break my heart when they also leave if you do. I was never the friend, though I thought I was.
I think of the future and I'm terrified of the healthy boredom, but I don't want the fun abuse either. And so comes my newest obsession that is breaking my heart as I sing them in the shower, the perfect being, protective, free, responsible, silly, serious and loving. I imagine, like a teenager, how I would meet him and the future we would have, music, travel, dance and love, sex?
So I swipe through and through as I slowly convince myself I'm unattractive since the few who aren't fugly, don't match me. And so I get back to the fantasy, if I become famous, I could have whoever I want, so the message I wrote for Sundays, the ridiculous music ideas, all become not only real but viable options. So silly and so dumb. Shame.
Ah, another tired sunrise, no matter the dreams, no matter the hours of sleep, I don't really have a close friend and this foreign feeling remains, the fantasies make it harder and so does the distance from you, the break up, the missing, the loneliness. Here or there, it comes with me, and I'm suicidal again, but nobody knows, this time I have no one to talk to.
Waiting for Monday.