if you knew,

you would never have gone.

but you didn't know.

you lived.

and there we stood
and heard the thunder
of cities turning to dust.

but this place was left.

we had become the world.
guilty, but free.

"i think i figured out what's been bothering me."

"...oh?" her eyes still glazed from the TV.

"whenever i take up your time,

you kick me out of your life."

"..."

"i thought you might want to know,

before i leave."

"..."

"did you know already?"

"...what?"

"..."

"wait, what should i already know?"

"...nevermind."

the hard part isn't missing you.

that's easy

the hard part is knowing

that you left without saying goodbye

and when you took off

you brought enough fuel to last the night

packed food and water,

enough to sustain you 'til you adapted

but you never once thought about home,

about us,

about me.

so i guess the hardest part then,

is knowing that i had my chance the whole time,

and never took it.

next in line

and if you took a closer look

you would see

that we are not dead

we speak

as a testament

to the blood

of your brothers, sisters, cousins,

mothers, fathers, friends, and co-workers,

that fought for your right

to continue the tradition

of suffering.

you call it a mental disorder.

i call it everything that i'm glad to be.