Take a Walk

I want to take you on a walk.

I'm not going to tell you that it gets easier with time. That's bull. There will always be something inside you, begging you to do it, something dark that wants to spill over your eyes.

So I want to take you on a walk.

There will always be a part of you that cringes when you see a razor. You'll always have those scars. That drop of blood on your pajama pants probably won't come out.

So I want to take you on a walk.

Instead of showing you what you could be, I want to show you what you already are.

So I want to take you on a walk.

I want to show you something you won't see in the shower. You can't understand if you're still in your closet.

Follow me outside. Squint at the sun. Let the sidewalk burn your feet. Let the wind blow your hair out of your eyes. Climb a tree. Swing your feet. Watch the sun paint the sky red and pink.

Wish on the North Star. Listen to the cicadas. Try to find the house that's still having a cookout. Bark back at dogs.

I want you to take a walk.