Once I get home, the thunderstorm inside my chest that pulses way too stronger for a normal one will find peace in the place I belong to. In that place — not this world, never has been — I walk among good recollections and, God, it doesn't hurt anymore, because you're there sitting beside me in bed while I smoke a cigarette. You're there and I don't make you feel tired of seeing me carrying too much sadness on my back whenever you see me, I want to shine like the stars that make your eyes sparkle with astonishment. I walk those gates again and nothing inside my chest creaks as I step on my own heart over and over again, but you just watch like it's a street show that momentarily caught your attention. It's okay, for you, for me. I wish you well, I wish you the world I would've given you if I wasn't me. If we could meet again.
Home feels like a bunker, a protection from air strikes dropping bombs everywhere, everyday; because I'm there, because you're there, because my cat is there, and also the drawings on my wrist that you cursed to be unable to remove forever. Under the dim golden light of the bedside lamp, you look like you deserve to be crowded by commoners that won't ever fully comprehend your features, you look like the divinity, your hands could prove it with a single fingerprint. It is under that lighting that you hate to see me, the skin that isn't my skin melts all across your carpet and I'm saying I'm sorry for being the way I am, but you're too tired to listen, anyways. You let me have the bittersweet victory. You look at me and weariness fills your being, oh how I understand that this is not the you meant for me. It's the other you, waiting for me back home, you that not see me for who I pretend to be.
I'll get there someday. You, and you, and you too will be there too, I'm sure, I didn't recognize your soul for nothing, it was written in my DNA, translated into my bloodstream to quiver at the sight of your face, and I'm so sure you are waiting for me to go back home. I won't be myself there, only the self I was meant to be, cloaked under these layers of lies, because I do not belong here, please understand when you see me filling a suitcase. To be sad is quite a difficult thing, my dear. Not everyone can walk around with an anchor inside their chest, but I'm quite used to it by now, just like I'm used to pretend I don't think about you anymore. I do, I did, I'll do. See you on the other side, you, you, you.