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Nov 2017
It goes something like this:
You spend years clawing through the hearts of men, one drunken night at a time. When you wake up in the mornings, you kick them out with one last kiss, and pretend you haven't forgotten their names already. You walk into the kitchen, pour yourself a cup of stale coffee, decide caffeine just isn't going to cut it, and crack open a beer instead. You stare blankly at the dust particles dancing around in the sunlight and wonder how long it would take to count them all.
You get to one hundred and give up.
You spend the rest of the morning wondering when things got this bad.

It goes something like this:
You get in the shower. Shave your legs. Wash your hair. Conceal your imperfections, coat your lips bright red. You look in the mirror and realize you don't know the person looking back anymore. That is your face. Those are your green eyes. Your crooked teeth. But it is not you. You stare at your reflection so long that the room around you becomes a blur. Your heartbeat begins to race but you cannot stop. You keep staring. Keep analyzing. Keep wondering when you became a stranger to your own body. When you finally snap out of it, you decide to run.

It goes something like this:
You pack your bags. Some socks. A pack of cigarettes. A bottle of whiskey. Just the necessities. And you run. You run and you run and you don't dare stop to look back. You don't want to change your mind. It's four in the afternoon and you're supposed to be at work. You almost feel bad for not showing up. Almost.

It goes something like this:
You get to the edge of a town that hasn't felt like home for years, and you take it all in one last time. You can't help but smile. You're finally free. You put your thumb in the air until a familiar face stops. He asks where you're headed. You tell him you don't care where you go, as long as it's beautiful. And this time, you promise not to forget his name.
Autumn Stott
Written by
Autumn Stott  26/F/Georgia, USA
(26/F/Georgia, USA)   
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