I hate home because I sit here night after night thinking about detail of how things went wrong with you. I can’t sleep in my own bed without thinking of all the amazing hours on end talks we’ve had. I think of every time we’ve talked about our future, every time you’ve made me laugh, every time you’ve made me angry or cry, whether it’s been tears of joy or sorrow. I read the old text of when you told me “I love you babe:).” No matter how many times you tell me you hate me and tell me to fuck off you still have a majority of my heart. You’ve really changed me in some ways. Like how I look at situations and life. I don’t fall back on drugs whenever shit goes sour. You taught me to make my own happiness and I was doing that with you. I also remember the cute voicemail’s you left. God, you sounded so happy. I hate being home because when I’m out with my best friend, Alissa, I don’t think about this shit going on. We go out and have a good time even if were just sitting in her room. Once I walk in the house I think, I criticize, I cry, I’m beyond sad. I just want this shit to end. People keep saying “Time will heal you” or “There’s other fish in the sea.” Yea, lots of time will heal, but I still want HIM. Yes, there’s other fish in the sea. What you don’t realize is that those “other fish” are going to have a hard time gaining my trust and my heart. Will those other fish accept me for em like he did? I highly doubt it. Anyways, I hate being here. My mom hates me being gone. She doesn’t get it. It hurts being in this house.