I don't want to be this anymore.

There is nothing poetic about this unhappiness. It is stale, old and familiar.

He told me once, he said through wide eyes that didn't want to believe what they were saying... he said that I liked being unhappy.

I wonder if he is right.
I wonder if I build these situational cells so that I can sit trapped inside of them. So I can bitch, complain, and yet stay safe and dry...
Hidden from that storm waiting outside.

It's time for me to get wet. It's time for me to get the hell out of dodge. It's time for some new problems, with new people, in new relationships.

I just wonder how much more I have to bleed before I will pull out this knife I have stabbed myself in the side with...