I had always been a runaway,
Before I even could.
Packing my teddy bear backpack,
Walking the five blocks to the park,
And hiding along a fence.
Hiding from where I came,
From people who would never care
To go looking for me.
I had always been a runaway,
Before I even began.
My friends were my family.
I felt more safe sleeping on the floor
Of mothers, fathers, and brothers
who were not mine.
I felt more comfort in carpools,
More solace in sleepovers,
Than I ever could
In my own bedroom.
I had always been a runaway,
Before I even did.
I used my window as a door
Until the night came when I realized:
Fear was my only prison guard.
So I walked myself out
The front entrance of the house,
Which was never my home,
And I never looked back.
When I had finally ran away,
Where I ended up
Was unimportant.
Desperate, I found
Kindredness and trouble
In other souls like mine.
But the inconsequential pain
from sharp-edged street friends,
Or the callous of passing strangers,
Was preferable;
I chose them over the hurt
From family members
Who only loved me
conditionally.
I will always be a runaway -
Before, now, and forever.
They say,
“If you are going through hell,
Keep going”.
Pillar of salt, and all that.
But hell is a feeling,
Not a place.
And running away only works
If the thing you run from
Cannot follow you,
Cannot creep into your nightmares,
Cannot come with.
So I am still a runaway.
Perpetually homeless,
Even with a place to live
Which is all my own.
Everlastingly escaping
The ironic pain of knowing
That no one will ever
Come looking for me.
