if I ran away from everything

I’d leave the unmade bed,
the pile of textbooks that feel like lead,
and the mirror that’s never quite right.

I’d just walk until the streetlights
stop looking like eyes,
and start looking like stars I can actually reach.

I wouldn’t take much—
maybe my favorite oversized hoodie,
the one that smells like home before it became too much,
and a notebook with all the pages still blank.

I’d find a place where nobody knows
what my grades were in seventh grade
or how I look when I’m about to cry.

If I ran away from everything,
I think I’d finally hear my own breath
instead of the echoes of everyone telling me
who I’m supposed to be
at 3:00 on a Tuesday afternoon.

I’d feel the regret pull at my heels,
a sharp reminder of the hearts I’d have to break
just to fix my own.

I’d know it’s selfish,
but for once, I need to be the one I’m saving.
I need this for me—
a single, quiet mile that belongs to no one else.

I wouldn’t be "lost."
I’d just be
somewhere else.