I left. I should be free from your shit. But here I am curled up in a ball, trying not to scream, because every little habit you whipped into me is still cutting into my soul. I can't let myself be comfortable because of you. I can't turn on the air conditioner because I'm afraid of using electricity. I don't know what to do with my plates and cups, for fear I'm making a mess. I feel so, so fucking guilty that I can't pay rent, because the only thing that matters is paying your way right?

This was my last fucking shot. If I can't be comfortable here, I don't think I can be. 

I know for certain now, that I won't make it out of this fucking disorder alive. I don't even know if I'll make it out of 2019. Fuck you.