Member-only story
Running Home
A poem
Running home,
fear like rocks
jagged in the stomach.
My heart plummets again,
internal whodunit,
lost something
but still don’t know what,
just feeling the void, a creeping shadow
seeping oil mixed with blood.
Running home,
beneath an encroaching night sky,
bleeding a gentle red as the sunset climaxes,
swallowing the street whole,
the street-lamps leak blood
onto the sleeping bodies below,
drugged out again, trying to escape.
Running home,
I dig the hole I’ll later
fall into,
I’ll try to wait for panic to subside,
eventual relief is shattered like weakened glass
and no level of heat can draw the fragments back together.
Running home,
my legs numb by now from running
to nowhere,
I never had a home, I always
chased the feeling
of a single place of peace.
Now on the precipice of nothing,
I accept my
failure, my bleeding knuckles,
blackened soles of my feet,
all give up.
Running home,
no more, instead
collapsing on the street,
all ambition only paved the way for pain,
my indecision
like a prison of my own design.
My bleeding heart weeps only for me,
I burned every other bridge.
Running home,
but there’s no home,
I run until
I’m merely lactic acid,
burning,
spitting vitriol,
same as it ever was,
it all remains my fault,
too weak to fix things
accepting the puddle of
mud that I sit in. What
kind of man am I?
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