18
Writing is a form of therapy. Sometimes I wonder how all those who do not write, compose or paint can manage to escape the madness, the melancholia, the panic fear which is inherent in the human situation.
And you taught me what this feels like.
And then how it feels to lose it.
And you showed me who I wanted.
And then who I wasn’t.
And you ticked every box.
And then drew a line.
And you weren’t mine to begin with.
And then not to end with.
And you looked like everything I wanted.
And then became something I hated.
And you get thought of every day.
And then not in a good way.
And you let me leave.
And then wish I’d stayed.
And you almost killed me.
But I didn’t die.
via (I wrote this for you)
