Turns out it's a lot less easy to be poetic when writing about feeling ok. Over the past few weeks text after text of heartbreak has fallen out of me, demanded to be written, read, felt. Some of them I've let you read. Most of them are just for me.
But then I moved into my room. Made my own bed. Put up my fairy lights and built some shelves and found a place for my guitar. And with every book I put up on my shelf the brokenness that I've been carrying for so long just broke away. One piece after the other.
It's hard writing poetically about feeling ok. But to be honest, I'd rather feel ok than be poetic anyway. I've had enough of feeling thinking being shit. And spending every waken second trying to ignore it.
I can sleep in until 8 now. I can sit still for hours and not fall apart. I can make myself dinner and eat it. All the things I've dreamt of have come true. I have my home, I have my friends, I have myself. I don't have you, but that's ok. I'm ok without you.
The texts that used to stream out of me like a flood demanding to be released have stilled. The last notes on my phone aren't poetic or emotional, but shopping lists for B&Q for stuff needed for my room. All that brokenness that consumed my entire being is giving in, leaving some much longed for space for me. A less poetic, but oh so much happier, me.