When I close my eyes and have your arms wrapped around me, I know that there’s no place I’d rather breathe in, no place I’d rather belong to, and no place I’d rather fit in.
Then I open my eyes, and I know that your tight grip just chokes me, holds me back from where I actually need to be, where I should be, where I want to be.
I know both these things.
I try to push you, so you’ll loosen your grip on me. Let me go, but also, go with me. But I’m learning that I can’t change you. I can’t keep pushing you, because every action has an equal but opposite reaction, and pushing you one step forward pushes me one step back.
And I can’t go back.
I’m sorry, but I can’t go back.