Moving Out.

With every poster I remove, I feel part of my world shrinking.
With every goodbye plan I make, I feel part of my soul crumple.
With every item of clothing folded, I feel part of my brain revert to my past.
With every re-assurance that I will be back next year, I feel part of my throat choke up.
Because...
With every poster I remove, I remove part of what I am, what I claim to be, and what people know me as.
With every goodbye plan I make, I remove part of the other people who complete me, who may not be returning next year.
With every item of clothing folded, I remove part of my recovery, as I'm soon to return to the scene of the crimes that nearly destroyed me.
With every re-assurance that I will be back next year, I remove part of my deniability that I still want to die.