I run home from the train. Slap slap slap. My breath is tight in my chest, but i'm scared if I stop something will consume me. I run. I run away from everything that pursues me. you, the hot girl from hair/class/cubby, people trying to grab me, to consume my soul. I run with my sanity and my credit card. I run with potential love that has not been given out and I run with talent that has not yet been tapped. I run with frustration and guilt. I pass the hipster couple that got off the train with me. I pass the pimped out van that the two guys live in. I pass the freezing streets until I am home. Then I dig in my pockets for the keys. My lungs are gasping and dying. I need to run more. The cold laughs at me. I go upstairs. I want to take a sharp clean razor blade to my skin and dissect myself slowly. I want to peel back the top layer of skin and see what is underneath. Then I will sew all the layers back together when i understand. Then I will get a big band-aid and put it over the wound to heal myself.
I have a sock from my adolescence that is caked in brown blood. It is the reminants of all my confusion. I looked at it last time I was home. Why do I keep this? In reality it is gross, in my memory it is necessary. This sock contains my healing. My break up in the Denny's waiting area, the sleep-over on the farm, and probably even the crazy hookah stealing business. All of my pain has been manifested on this sock. I know now this isn't how i should deal with my pain, but there is something appealing about a visceral healing experience instead of an emotional one I cannot track. I just want to feel better.
I'm in bed now. The air mattress creaks and I think about the rug I left in Queens. The door grinds against the floor downstairs. My roommate reaches a climactic agreement with her boyfriend. I am solitary with my thoughts and my words. I will teach the neighbor to sing. I will not eat cupcakes before my photo shoot. I will not fall victim to running home on a regular basis.
