GO.

Scared that independence means alone.

Isolated.

In this place of familiarity;

I am alien.

I am, no longer

of the room.

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It is

Years. Years in delusion,

that this story isn’t written.

Years. Years of blind belief

that I need just wait,

to just, hold on, for a

reality

better than any fantasy

anyone could write.

Funny, that holding on

could be an option.

There is no letting go

of something so

woven to my skin.

Years. Years to be decades then.

It does not matter.

It is.