Dear me, Fuck you! Unusual right? 
I rinse my face, look up into the mirror while the water is still dripping, and it just came out.
Then another one.
Fuck you! Fuck you! Fuck you!
Raw. Naked. Pure anger against myself. 
I was holding my teeth tight, with rage against the bare face of the 40 years old woman in front of me. 
Do I need to hit rock bottom to realise that it's time for change?
Fuck your greasy hair. Fuck your oversized tee's that helps you  cover what's underneath. Proof after proof of too many "just this last time." I could't look at myself anymore. My hands are shaking and i need something to give them a purpose. 
I came out of the bathroom barefoot, bare-hearted.
Stripping—not for money, for truth.
My wet feet were leaving wet prints on the floor. I looked at them for a minute and watched how fast they disappeared, with no trace to be found, just like the past  years of my life.

In my head, something—or someone—is begging to get out. One hundred questions a minute, none of them waiting to be answered.
Loneliness is a strange place to be. It either dilutes you into the world or pushes you away to build one of your own.
At this point, I am so broken that I have to express it because I am suffocating.

I can't look at this face, this place, this city and not think, I don't know where I want to be, but I'm certain it's not here. Not here mentally or not here physically? 
Where does a broken one go? Am I broken or just unfinished? 
No  destination ahead, just a decision and confusion, a lot of confusion...
How do I know which part of myself I have to murder, so the rest can live? What if i kill the wrong one? 

It's dark outside. All the lights are on. All the answers are off.
The curtains are open. I can see myself clearly in the window. From the outside, they can see me too, and neither of us knows who we're looking at. i wonder if from outside i look like normal person. Waiting for the summer, retreat in the winter, working 9 till 5 for a supper holiday and occasional pair of shoes, or do i look as lost as i feel? How many women look the same and feel the same? 

I sit on the couch.
This is usually when I reach for the remote and pause on my life so I can live someone else's  for an hour, hour and a half. 
Instead, I reach for a cigarette.
My sweet, experienced, venomous friend.
At least you carry the decency to strike me in the heart, so I know who's hurting me.
I light one up. I wish I had a drink, but my fridge is empty, that's probably better.

I take my phone. 
I need visual proof of  the exact moment I choose myself. 
A promise before a plan.
At a crossroads of becoming.
I open my calendar.

I don't search for motivation. Motivation will fallow. I search for a date.
08.11.2026.
One year from today. 
One table.
One woman.
Me.
Or whatever version of me shows up. 

She will inherit the biggest investment of my life.
My future.
Purchased in fifty-two Sundays.
Paid in weekly settlements.
No taxes.
One hundred percent return.
And this time…
No spectres.
No luggage.
Just me.