Twenty-three is not knowing what I want; and going and going and going and trying to hold on to things I don't care about because maybe eventually I will. But I don't. And I'll throw it away or be thrown away and there's so much shit piling by the wayside and I don't even know if I care, really, deep down.
I'm caught in some circumstance that I can't exactly explain, because it's complicated and I feel like I'm fourteen again with the confusion and hormones except now it's just adulthood and indecision.
I just need to leave.
And I can't.
Through all the garbage and ridiculousness and asshole ex-boyfriends, people stop making sense. Everything bright and hopeful, all the freedom and happiness that you thought you discovered when you were twenty-two dissolves. I can't replicate it. But I've found that in the midst of it all, there still are people who make things seem worth staying for, and fighting for. And I guess that's enough.
