Heartbreak

Disclaimer: Yes, I am very much so writing this to avoid studying. But also to lighten my heart, filled with too many thoughts for me to focus at all. 

---

How many stories do I have? How many stories do you want to hear?

Should I tell you about the evenings I spent in the bathroom or garage? The late nights trying to fit in? All the books I read, hoping that one would speak to me, that I could look at it and say, "Hey, there she is, there I am."

Should I tell you about how none of that worked?

Maybe you want to hear more about the sleepless nights, tormented thoughts, tear-stained pillows and journals and memories and conversations and lives.

But maybe you don't really care. Maybe all of this just serves to make you feel special. Maybe the secrets that I share are stored in a trunk, gathering dust, something that reminds you you can't throw it away, but it doesn't really mean anything either. Maybe I just open up to be closed off again.

Maybe every time I let someone in, they take a little piece of me with them when they leave. Like a bed and breakfast with a library that dwindles over time. Maybe the years I spend in different places capture a piece of my soul that I can never get back.

Maybe that's why I always feel like something's missing. Like things could be better. Like I'm always wishing I were somewhere not here, not now, not who I am.

But I'll be brought to where I need to be, with pieces of my heart and scraps of my soul leaving a breadcrumb trail through the forest back to where I started.