stowaway

i used to think there was an art to being quiet. sticking to the back row seats, and doing as i’m told, no more and no less. nodding along obediently. i’m doing good, aren’t i? because if i’m not, i swear to god i’ll make it up to you. i’ll write i’m sorry across the kitchen wall, etch it out in sharpie on my palm.

i’ll cry a quiet river when it won’t wash away, and lock myself in my room for days. until this sickness starts to fade. i’m good at that too, they say.

and maybe i’ll open the door, and show it all to you someday; the photos on strings, the posters on the walls. half-finished sketches, and poems, and that really bad song. i’ll speak in brilliant colours, and look you in the eye.

i’ll know what to say, and do, when you bandage the chip on my shoulder and lay out your broken pieces like a puzzle on my lap. i’ll find all the king’s horses, just you wait and see. i’ll carve myself a place in the world, and fit the role effortlessly.

but for now, i think i just need to be alone, wrapped up in blankets on a rainy day, and write myself dizzy. let my mind go blank. in the hopes that maybe, from that empty, something will appear. something good, and kind. something new. and i won’t run away this time. i promise you.

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