Running till She Feels Whole

I look to the worn down mirror and see myself for the first time. I am seventeen-years-old with long, dirty blond hair that lightly curls near the ends. I stare into my sharp, deep blue eyes and am aware of my pale skin with the light brown freckles sprinkled on top. My now glassy eyes threaten me with tears; I’m trying to keep them down. It aches to keep this lump in my throat, unable to speak or move. I splash cold, rough water on my face and put on my mask,they won’t notice; they won’t care. I take a deep breath, check my makeup, plaster the smile onto my face, and walk out of the bathroom. “Final call for the flight to New York City."

I am running from reality

running from my past

running from my hurt

I am running; what I do best.