Birds of a feather flock together.

That's how that old saying goes.. right?
Or wrong?

Questions of morals always come into play and these days I'm wondering if I'm the only one left with some. I can feel the cold air circulating on my thigh as I sit in this too warm dorm room and try and figure out how the fuck I've managed to ruin this, again.

That weekend, curled up in your bed as you were at work. The sunlight pouring onto my body in waves. The brightness preventing me from sleep until I slid completely under your down comforter, my knees up to my neck. You kissed me before you left. Your arms leaning on my knees, your mouth meeting mine. It wasn't a deep kiss or a long kiss. A small little kiss, but oddly enough that's the only time I've ever been kissed like that. The only one I really savor. Your smell still lingers on my pillow even though it's been months since you've slept here. A month since we've spoken. The fact that I can recognize the time periods makes me sick to my stomach. I was packing my clothes last night and I found two of your sweaters. Two that I had bought for you. Two that you left here so you could have clean clothes.
That night, you had upset me and I turned on the cold water and stepped into your shower fully clothed. Freezing, I turned off the water and laid in the bottom of the shower in the dark. For how long? I don't know. Not long enough to kill but long enough for my skin to be complete ice.
My mind keeps going in circles, trying to recognize the downfall of Prague.
And now, now I can see it.
That book, the book that spelled out my vulnerability. I should have never told you where I hid it. I shouldn't have let you read it. But I did. And I trusted you. But not enough, not enough to let you inside my head and you couldn't control me. You were never angry, or jealous. Always patronizing. Always safe.
I was settling. I haven't been sixteen for a long time and that's the girl who you were yearning for. The running girl of my youth, quick to smile and laugh. Quick to bend to your will.

Practice your detachment on someone else.

You're always going to be that lost little boy tearing off wings.