I was always afraid to grow bitter. So much that I would hug people even closer after a fight. Because I didn't want the taste of it settle on my tongue, burn my throat, mix with mine.
I would never let words to wriggle before falling out of my mouth. I would rather keep them silenced deep in my gut, keep them from screaming themselves out. I would see them as an enemy in my own house with a knife ready to kill the love I always fostered like a baby who will eventually grow out of my arms. I made people my home where I stayed, for a little too long.
I think I've stayed out for too long now and the walls are shaky. And the windows squeak. And the bed is never made. And the absence groans to be felt.
And now I watch myself everyday turning my head away from homes. But the saddest thing is I don't want to have one, anymore. I see myself creating wars inside me but the saddest thing is I do nothing to stop myself.