I thoughts that airplanes and road trips would fix me.
I thought I could fill the cracks with bits of every new adventure,
with street lights and tequila shots from strangers who called me beautiful,
rough hotel sheets and slurred conversations with blurred faces.
I thought I could match up my scars with locations on a map, trace them to find something more fulfilling, heal them with sea water and one night stands.
But then I realized that it wasn’t the place, it was me,
and no stamp on a passport could rewire my mind.
I was always bound to end up on the balcony overlooking seas and sidewalks,
wishing I was whole enough to jump without losing every part of myself on the way down.
Hanging over the railing talking myself in and out, and on to the comfort of the bathroom floor, creating my own oceans.