Two winters ago, all I wanted to do was run:
run away from myself,
run away from my skin,
run away from my world,
leaving my body and my troubles
behind,
losing every last pound to the wind,
and fortifying my fight to the golden finish line,
my ultimate goal.

One winter ago, all I wanted to do was sleep:
forget about myself,
forget about my skin,
forget about my world,
escaping reality in a self-inflicted
coma,
writing suicide notes on the hour,
and planning my route to a white bed of clouds,
my ultimate goal.

Now it’s winter again,
and I don’t know what I want,
and I’m
scared.