nostalgia

i can always leave.

i’d scream the words in my father’s face, cry them into the pillow, repeat them in a vain attempt to soothe myself on the bus ride home. it really is so damn easy. leaving everything you know really only takes a few phone calls and an attitude of truly not giving a shit about anything anymore. there’s a beauty in having a lack of permanence.

i tried to convince myself that for so long. that the alternative of leaving everything i knew was better than deteriorating for the sake of familiarity.

rebuilding is an opportunity, i’d tell myself.

but then i remember.

his arms, my mother’s voice, my bed.

i wish for it back sometimes.