I Don’t Run

Since I was 16 I dreamed of leaving,

making the bed for the first time and

cleaning a room once so lived in that

the mess was organized by smell and height.

A pillow in one arm, and a bag banging

against my back as I lopped down the street,

the midnight stars my guide.

8 years later, and now I have a car.

The pillow on the passenger seat and

the bag in the back, and headlights

racing with white and yellow lines.

Exhaust being the only whisper of my existence,

as the taillights fade in the distance.

No word.

No note.

Just freedom.

It hurts each day to stay, to smile,

I split my skin so my blood could

have the freedom my heart cannot have.

I love you so deeply

I hate you.

I hate knowing you would never let me go.

You would search for the lights,

and find the car with the pillow in the passenger seat,

and the bag in the back.

I miss you every second, as my mind travels the roads

I have only dreamed of.

I dream, and feel guilty, and dream.

But you are not enough.

Brief visits would be meaningless,

because my location would be brought to evidence,

and the exhaust will have to filter into the room again.

This is the best I can offer,

there are things I just can’t give to you.

Don’t forget me; please never forgive me

Don’t forgive me,

I will never forgive you.

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