My body had long since given up on convincing my mind to sleep. Cheeks burning with tears, throat aching from failed efforts to hold them in. I told you that I was tired. That I couldn't spend another day trying to outrun this weight that had settled in my head and heart.
You said that I had work to do, and things to let go of. I had habits to abandon; I'd never make it with them present.
I protested. I said I had grown too attached, that they had become apart of me by now. I told you that I was afraid I wouldn't recognize myself without them. And I heard your answer before it was even said.
"What makes you think that would be such a bad thing?"