A friend once told me,
That people don’t live. They run.
And I want to know,
Is that why you told her you never liked me?
Were you trying to run?
Is that why I kept it unofficial,
I wanted to keep my escape route open?
People don’t run from something, or someone.
They run from their own emotions.
Like when I broke up with you after that final straw.
I didn’t run from you.
I ran from the like I felt for you.
People don’t live, they run.
What if I stop running?
Is that what killing yourself feels like?
Taking a long sip of water after a run,
Finishing a test in the last seconds,
Gulping down air, trying to restart your body.
Does death feel like freedom?
Is it the new beginning?
Or is it just another hell,
Waiting for its latest victim,
Waiting for its victim to drown?