I'm tired of being celebrated for surviving traumas I didn't deserve in the first place. I want to drive and drive and drive away until I no longer feel the sunlight digging its nails on my bruised legs, until I fall to my knees and melt in the shadows, and all traces of struggling are swallowed whole by the ground. I long for the quiet: a Brontë girl dying before the ending. I long to no longer be visible. I long to be long gone.