That day, I kicked you out. Not physically no, but socially yes. I pushed you away to lengths I never wanted you to be in, in the first place. I fought against my own feelings and while my mind tumbled and fretted and cried and apologized, I kicked you out anyway. For once, I wanted to do the right thing.
And while you lay there begging for an explanation or insight, I couldn’t string together any words that made enough sense to tell you why pushing you away, was the better thing for you.
Because when you promised to contain my madness, I fell for it gladly, smiling I had found a home in you. But what is the point of his home when I manage to scar its walls with crayons of my pain and lack of sanity. What is the point of this home when I manage to break every piece of furniture you put together to comfort me, with my fits of rage and stormy apprehensions. What is the point of this home when it is only made of an overwhelming need to care for me that sometimes I cannot respect or even comprehend?
No home is strong enough to contain the winds of panic inside me, but pushing you away to avoid breaking you- was the rare human I wish this home had seen.