I can’t believe I’m still fucking writing about you.
You’re the only person I don’t mind getting in my sheets and having my body.
But if I were to welcome you back into my heart, you’d feel a stranger.
I’ve filled in the cracks and put a new coat of paint over my worn out and restless old coat of paint.
I’ve hung beautiful pictures over the holes you punched in the wall.
And maybe you’d feel like a stranger in my renovated heart.
But with time you’d remember where I put the scissors and maybe find your old toothbrush.
Maybe you’d feel at home again.
But I sure as hell wouldn’t.
This is not your destruction.
This is your birth. n.t. (via runningisbadass)