Writers 
There comes a point
when leaving stops feeling like a choice
and becomes the only way
to protect what is left of your heart.
I had grown tired
of being the one left behind,
of watching people walk away
while I stood there hoping
they would turn around
and remember I was still there.
You stood before me
with that empty look,
that unwilling expression,
as though you had already left
long before your feet ever moved.
And still, I walked away
hoping you would follow.
Hoping you would call my name,
reach for me,
stop me somehow,
show me that I mattered enough
to be held onto.
But you stood there
and watched me disappear.
I was a cracked building
with me still inside.
The walls were splitting.
Everything was falling apart.
And you could have saved me.
But you were busy
chasing a passion
that was never meant for you,
never looking back
to see the person
falling apart inside the ruins.
Then we reached a crossroads.
You left me standing there,
as though waiting for you
was something I was born to do.
As though I would remain
until you were ready.
But I had waited enough.
I had spent too many nights
holding onto people
who only returned
when it was convenient.
I was tired
of seeing your back turned toward me.
Tired of wondering
if this time
you would finally turn around.
So I left.
Not because I stopped caring.
Not because it didn't hurt.
I left because
I finally understood
that waiting to be chosen
was slowly tearing me apart.
I chose to leave
before being left behind again.
And if walking away
meant walking alone,
then so be it.
I would rather carry
the weight of my loneliness
than remain somewhere
that made me feel
I had to earn
the right to be kept.
I left before being left.
And this time,
I didn't wait
for anyone to turn around.
