New

Hatred.

Rage.

Figuring out for the 5th time that you don't have to deal with this crap.

So you move on.

For the fifth time.

You feel free, as though a heavy weight has been lifted from your shoulders.

Now you're fleeing down an empty highway at midnight.

All that's left for him to mourn with regret over is a small note,

the other half of his heart,

taped to the memorial that had once been your front door.

~Amy, Leaving

~2/3/09