packing always seems more romantic
than it is.
can’t believe
i still think about the stupid things
that happened
wondering like a little girl
if by this time tomorrow,
being on the other side
of the atlantic ocean
could somehow make me
more desirable
to you.

stop scrabbling away at power
the way a baby flounders around
determined to catch bugs
in her little baby fists.
i get that you’re scared
that i’m growing up,
that i think
independant thoughts.
i get that taking my things away
is the only retaliation
you can think of
but mom,
you have to let go eventually.
you can’t keep setting me back like this,
being one more obstacle,
one more problem to overcome,
you’ve made it harder
than anything else,
when what you should have been
was a friend.