You live in me. Honey, you set up camp. You planted that first seed, and wanted to watch it grow, I pull out the roots but it just keeps coming. This is depression, this is your end goal to see me fail. You’re my roommate that wants me to move out. You eat all my food and insult my clothes and never take down my messages. You, the real you hasn’t talked to me in 4 years, but you still live here. You have you’re own room, and you take over mine whenever you dam well please. You shred everything that’s important to me with the ease only a seasoned professional is capable of. 4 years, the time it takes to graduate highschool. 4years, the time between presidents. 4years, is what it took me to work up the courage to finally ask you to move out. You won’t.. because you can’t… 17 years of abuse can’t be erased in 4. 17 years of belittling, beating down, and outright abuse takes time to smudge away. I no longer see your face in my nightmares. You are no longer the first thought I have at the beginning of my day. You’re a whisper, a nudge, the turning of my stomach. But you don’t scare me anymore. You can’t hurt me like you did anymore. I’m not that little kid with their suit case always packed but afraid you’ll find it, because wanting to run but being afraid to isn’t my every day anymore. I don’t own a suit case anymore. I don’t speak the words to qualm the anger out of habit anymore. I don’t shrink back as much anymore. I’m healing, and you hate that, but who gives a fuck what you want anyway. You don’t pay rent here anymore.
