It’s no good, there’s no use. There’s nothing left of the truth. Thoughts twisting, head reeling, overwhelmed with feeling.
Bags packed, looking back, scooping clothes up off the floor. Flying out the door, nothing left, there’s no more.
Into the woods, leaves crunching underfoot. Look, truly look, vultures flying, almost crying. Fleeing, fleeting, quickly leaving,
Now running, climbing, in a tree, can barely see. Tears falling, appalling, anything to
Be free. Wishing, dreaming, wanting, needing. An escape, a break.
There’s nowhere to go, no one left to be. Just a breeze, fresh air, no more cares.
Kiana Reeves is a writer living in New York.