I’ve packed my bags again, all ready to leave.
The bags of memory I carry with me
They’re too heavy but I know my shaking arms can hold the weight
pulling on my shoulders that were made too small to carry
all the things I have to drag around with me and my little
cowards heart, that yearns for love and fears anything
that breathes and can’t be predicted or forgotten.
Like a beaten dog, I scuttle through neighbourhoods
looking back over my shoulder, worried about who might be following me.
Breathing too hard on a quiet fall day, heart racing after ghosts
that no one hears but my unsure ears; who whisper to my heart
Run, they whisper. Run from home again.
But my legs are tired and my last plan of escape is crumbling around me
torn down by all that once was home, was love, was safe, was blood.
As the leaves turn red, orange and shades of yellow, the sunsets burn
like fire with smoke drifting from the trees
there’s no more roads to leave this town, there’s no tomorrow, no better days.
You know when people are just so thrilled about you being with them, that they hold you and play with your hair. And I don’t mean ‘absent mindedly playing with your hair’.
Their mind is fully involved with what their hands are doing. And there’s also none of this ‘absentmindedly stroking your skin while watching TV’. A much more accurate statement would be ‘absentmindedly watching TV while stroking your skin’.
That’s just really nice.