When I run away from myself
it is in slow motion.
I do not stop to catch my breath
my limbs play catch up with the bone-tired.
I am not the best.
I stretch myself onto the shelves. The books know my fingerprints and
begin to smell like what I’ve left idling abandoned
I’m running, I promise.
I’m giving you enough time to enjoy the view of what was.
I’m letting you have one last inhale of me
before I disappear into dyed hair and newfound dreams.
Before I become a picture of someone else’s everything.
When I settle into myself, it is in frigid waves. It is the static that becomes the loudest. If you put your ear to the pavement, you can hear where I splashed pieces of myself into the floor. It is all disconnected and unfamiliar and not what I pictured resolving into.
I am not the best.
I am a blur of a feeling. An unfinished projection. Maybe I will fall into the click and whisper. Maybe I’ll mouth your name again. Just to see how it feels.