Four years ago, I ran.
Pushed the pain and the happiness,
The good and the bad,
The memories and the nightmares,
Behind me, and tried to escape.
As I closed the door to my rejected self,
I opened the door to the outside world,
And took off, no destination in mind.
The open road lay ahead,
My feet pounded hard against the ground,
And my body ached,
As it released, with each ragged breath,
Moment after moment of my life.
Until nothing was left.
But my footsteps slowed, came to a stop,
And everything rushed back toward me,
Running at an equal speed,
Hitting me with a such a force,
That I was knocked to the ground,
And crumpled on the side of the road.
I couldn’t escape, couldn’t run,
So I lay there,
Taking it all back in,
And releasing it again,
Letting it run down my cheeks.
I never thought I would get up.
But eventually I staggered to my feet,
And walked back down that road,
Damaged, weakened, but still going.
And somehow, I felt lighter,
The pain was still there, only it was softer.
But this moment, this experience,
Rather than help, as I thought it had,
Left me even more exposed,
Even more unprepared for what lay ahead.
I hadn’t been given time to repair,
To regain and build my strength.
And this heavier, inescapable load,
Fell on the fragile, vulnerable shell.
The only thing that was left.
It did not cry out,
It did not speak up,
And this time, it could not run.