“Yes, you should go.”

I find that the moment things begin to make sense, they decide that it would be perfectly okay to crumble on me. To take on the persona of being something extremely hard for me to decipher. Like, who is this child? What child would see me this way?

Why does any of this exist?

And five seconds later, you are asking to leave. Screw 18-wheelers. You're fantastic at running people over with your words. But I've been practicing, and nothing you can do will break me into thirds.

Maybe in half, but I'll never need any of my horcruxes because of you. You'll always be with me. I'll always be with you. Read any of my pieces of paper recently? Those aren't just words.

“No, wait.”

You stop. But you don't turn around. You think about it though, I can tell by the way you shift on your feet. You'd miss me. Now I know. I'm almost ready to turn you loose again.

As long as you hurt, I do not care.

“You can have the car,” you say, as if that could possibly be where my mind is.

And then you left.

I wish you had just taken the car instead.