It either ends or it doesn’t. You either reach home or you learn yourself all over again. At least, that’s what you tell yourself in the long, sleepless nights. You’re going to wake up next morning and make coffee for you alone, just one spoon of sugar in one cup.
She told me that all people are replaceable. It was a heavy word, a pressure aching in both my throat and the universe. I asked myself when did she become so good at getting rid of ghosts. I could wear my ghosts wrapped around me like a sort of coldness. If people are that replaceable, then how do you let go ? Leaving is a war and you don’t come back the same. A star falls from the sky right into your pulse, but then you have to survive without it. Rewrite yourself until you’re no longer a home. A name must become a name, only without the sorrow. Close the door that was only half-open. Hands not conveying warmth anymore, eyes swiftly moving from one another like a personal intrusion. Break yourself and dig the rot out. Leaving means tearing apart all these entire cities that I have inside me and saying they’re not worth it.
People think dreams aren’t real only because they’re not tangible. But I swear, some nights I carry past lives and all I can do is lie still and taste the blood in my mouth.