Five minutes, any day. Spent writing—something anything not for anyone anything no edits no outlines no plans no correction, this is where it goes.enjoy.

Friday, January 27, 2012

I will never stop running (But He knows that)

My hands grasp the gritty dirt.  The rain falls, as it has been for so long, and the whole world is desolate, just has for as long as I ran away.
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?"


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