There is a girl--everywhere I go, she watches.

From the still, glass wall that confines her, her brown eyes stare out, their dangerous depths glittering like moonlight on a razor. I know to stay away, out of her reach, even though her body can never break through.

But it’s her mind that scares me the most. I shut it out the best I can, drowning her taunts with loud music or the chatter of friends, too much laughter and late nights. Her whispers, though, are harder to scatter, seeping in through the cracks of my skull and dancing across my ears.

I dig my fingers into my scalp to pull--rip--at my hair. But that only lets them in deeper, their fingers curling around my brain and snaking down my spine. So instead, I lay on my back in my too-hot nest of sheets, eyes shut, until I can no longer take it. On some rare nights, when I’m at my bravest, I untangle my chains and drag my feet against the scuffed wooden floors. I pause at the door, sucking in deep breaths of oxygen to talk myself out of it, even though I can never break the bonds that pull me to her. I always take that next step, her eyes instantly finding mine as she materialises out of the shadows.

They burn right through me like flames through grass, the sharpest of blades splitting the thinnest of butterflies’ wings.

I can’t tear my gaze away--I never can. It’s always her who looks away first, but it’s not a sign of defeat but of dominance.

Even with closed lids, I know every line of her face and body from the scars to the way she balances on her toes and her back curves.

A shallow inhale, a wheezy exhale.

One and the same.

And yet, I will never be her.

I run from fear.

I run from hate.

I run from truth.

I run from fate.

I flee from terrors.

I try to escape.

I run and run

But I stay in place.

For five years I've wondered what my life, our life would look like if I hadn't left. If I hadn't driven away, crying until Memphis. If I just stopped right there and said I'm home.

I have a hard time believing we'd be anything but together. Wasting away on quiet Saturday mornings on the balcony of Square Books, you, with an iced coffee in a mason jar in one hand, a book in the other, reading aloud as I lick the remains of our pastry breakfast from my sunburned lips.

I'd nearly doze to the bass of your familiar voice, the sun dancing on my crossed shins. You'd set your coffee down, rest one chilled palm on my warm leg making me jump awake from my near cat nap.

I don't know what you're reading, but it's my new favorite book.

As is the natural order, books are followed by thrifts and antiques. We are in dire need of nothing and we both know we'll leave empty handed, the only evidence, a few photos of a girl in a floppy easter hat.

The difference between old thrifting and today, however, is that instead of flying ahead of you, awaiting your slow molasses saunter to round the corner, you've slowed me down with you - your baseball mit hand dawrfing mine in a way I've only dreamed about. I'm a little more patient these days - but only slightly.

I'd still scowl at your need to walk every single isle at the grocery store "just in case", when we only need milk. I still grab the expensive brand while you do the math in your head to discover you'd have saved us 7 cents had I been a little more patient.

I'd still sick smack in the middle of the couch, but instead of flinching, you'd lean in and pull me closer to you, calm as a Mississippi sunset.

We'd both get a little drunk on the scent of cedar and flowers dacing between us and around us. But this time, we won't have to wonder where it's from.

Out on the porch, the shadow trees sit black against the cotton candy sky, as we rock back and forth on the porch swing you built with your own hands; my favorite kind of evening that makes me dream of another day exactly like this. The kind where to go home, means a slightly inconvenient commute up a few stairs; where the day ends blanketed by your accent, as you sit watchful over what is yours, what is mine, what is ours.

But the thing is, I cried until Memphis. And even once the tears stopped, I didn't; I kept heading west and you didn't stop me.

I constantly run away from the problems that I face everyday. I waste about most of my brain power and my strength just worying about what people think about me. Do I look ok? Do i smell good? Does this outfit make me look fat? We spend too much time worying about what others think of us. Trust me I would know alot about this because i'm in highschool. I ask myself these questions everyday. It's also tiring being taken advantange of for my ADD. ( Attention deficit disorder.) Having to worry about homework and passing grades and what to wear to impress my crush or how to get him to notice me. Trying to avoid awkward interactions with my frenemy or my ex. These are the things I run away from everyday.

A youngish man sits in a grey office cubicle. His bosses say he has potential. His bonus is enough to make the year seem worthwhile. But a year is composed of months, and months are composed of days, and days are composed of minutes, and minutes composed of seconds, and he’s been wasting every second, sitting in that grey cubicle.

He doesn’t think:

This is a slow death,

And he doesn’t think:

The slowest suicide.

Every morning he opens his email and the urgency begins, his screaming subconscious only manages a deep, depressed sigh, and the ritual commences. His sapped creativity yields in silence, a numbing schedule of meetings surrounds his corporate altar and again today, he offers his own creativity, his own volition, and bows before a corporate God.

He doesn’t think:

This is creative immolation.

A corporate God he can’t quite identify. It lives somewhere near the stock price, it takes possession of the CEO from time to time and “where two or more [board] members are gathered” there God is. It’s a hungry, jealous God, but subtle. It steals all his time, but encourages a “healthy work-life balance.” It whispers “you’re doing this for the family” in his ear, and when his best friend asks why he’s wasting his life in that grey office cubicle he hears himself say, “It’s a good job, it’s a good company, I don’t hate it, it’s for the family,” and he tries to remember when he started justifying his job to himself, and why?

It crushes me, strangles me, renders me useless. When you're walking down the street and feel like there's someone following so you breathe very quietly, listening for sounds of a potential murderer. Of course, when you turn around, no one's there. But that moment of panic leaves you spooked. It's an easy guess: self-doubt. Low self-esteem. Basically knocking myself down with my self-referential abuse.

A man at work told me I was beautiful today. I smiled, said thank you, turned back to my computer screen. The smile was actually genuine, it was nice to be noticed. My reaction disturbed me more than his creepy comment. Of course, he'd reduce me to my looks. Men's acknowledgement only increases my distate for myself. I'm not on this earth to please the eye of the male beholder. At times like this, I want to run away from my body.

When one man says I'm beautiful, I wonder why I don't get cat-called. All the horrible things that happen to women on a daily basis, don't to me. Why would I want to go through these humiliating experiences? Because if I don't, it means I'm not worthy. I'm not pretty enough to degrade. This toxic train of thought never stops.

See the self-doubt I was talking about earlier? I can't run away from it.

My feet pound into the ground,

screaming in protest with each step I take,

I try to keep running,

but my feet start to ache.

My demons are chasing me,

their sorrowful cries ringing though the air,

they are trying to bring me back,

to their agonizing lair.

Run girl run,

a voice rings in my ear,

run girl run,

there are worse things to fear.

run girl run,

don’t let them catch you,

run girl run,

or say goodbye to the girl you knew.

My legs speed up,

i‘m flying up off the ground,

so long demons,

I am already deaf to their eerie sound.

I look back behind me,

as I soar though the sky,

the demons has sprouted wings,

my demons can fly.

“leave me alone” I wail,

But the demons continue their chase,

I considered calling for help,

but nobody listened to my cries in the first place.

at first when you asked me

"what are you running away from?"

i laugh and say

"Nothing"

but now that you're gone

i'm starting to understand

i'm starting

to know

i'm running away from everything

those pictures in the magazines

the posters on the wall

showed me a time when i was

very

very

small

insecure and afraid

i had no friends

so i had to be brave

i had many enemies

i couldn't see the truth

pain and suffering were the only

things i knew

so

when you asked me

"What are you running from?"

finally i understand

finally i know

i'm not running from the hate

that others give

i'm not running from my shadows

i'm running from myself

the self that will soon shatter

I run from my name, and it follows me. I hide from the gaze of the man who gave it to me. I cower from the shadow of the throne he offers, the responsibility it demands. I flee the thought of those I would rule in his stead. The crown I am to carry may as well be crafted of lead for the weight it carries, as heavy as his stare. When I take this burden my word shall be law, why then does my throat grow tight and my voice turn hoarse at the very thought?

Shackles of pride and expectation bind my every movement, my motions are as through clay, each action compared against my fathers’ own, and his before him.

What should happen if I fail? What if my decision should fall short? Who shall every gaze fall upon when it is discovered I am not as great as he?

And so I run. I run from my name.