I ran away because I'm not good enough. I'm not good enough and I can't be and it's better if I just leave. The world is desolate with me. And no one deserves to be with me, so maybe if I run away, if I try to escape, then I can be alone in my desolating without bringing it on anyone else.
The dirt stings the wounds on my hands, the wounds from scratching at the earth in a futile attempt to occupy myself. A futile pathetic attempt to give myself something to focus on, anything but that great big oppressive sky that when I look up, it reminds me of you.
I hear you coming and I turn, I run, I flee to somewhere I hope you can't find me. But you do because even my attempts to hide are futile.
You stand and give me your hand.
"But I'm not good enough. I can't do this. I can't be worthy, I'm a mess. I'm a disaster. Why do you want this? Why do you care? I'm trying to get away from you. i'm trying to get away because I can't ever be good enough for you and why do you want this wretch that I am? I am running from you. Why do you come to get me?"