To the people who don't understand why I am always running...

Maybe I run because this American Dream is starting to feel like prison to me; these tree-lined streets and white picket fences slowly melting into ball-and-chain, lock with no key. Because maybe the inevitable slams of doors in my face have not been accompanied by the promise of an opening window in the adjacent room for the longest time. Because nowhere could be as unbearable as here. Because unless I isolate myself from anyone I could ever care about, I'll never learn to love myself. After all, the curves of my body have always seemed too soft to be beautiful without being disguised and transformed by the sweet nothings that spill from his eager lips, and I can't help but to think and overthink until I lose myself in a sea of headache and worry that only he can pull me from and reassure me with hand-fed teaspoons of his love. Because as long as I love him, I will always think of him before myself. Because goodbyes have always rolled of my tongue like poetry, while small talk has never fit in my mouth as perfectly as prayer. Because the ink stains on my fingertips are the only things that ever seem to stay, no matter how hard I try to wash them away. Because after being told that I am an old soul more times than I can count, I finally understand that it's just the kindest way for people who pretend to care to deliver the message that I do not belong here. Because my world is being consumed by flames and the inferno has become too destructive to be extinguished by me alone. Because maybe the steady beats of my heart and the pounding of my feet against the ground as I run are the ony company I need. But the only thing my perpetual footsteps are to me anymore is a broken promise, because they have never taken me home, How could they, after all, when all home has ever been to me is a four letter word I cannot pronounce, an empty syllable resonating in my time-bomb heart; each tick, each repetition of this unachievable dream only reminding me of how little time I have left to find my promised land. But maybe I run because each time I flee from another dark and empty house, I hope again. I hope that if I run far enough this time, if I run long enough this time, I might finally reach my God.