#walkhome
You tell me that if I ever talk back
or do it again, I’ll walk.
I don’t think it’s just about the distance;
you’re tired of me, and I can feel it.
You want me to leave, and I can feel it.
I’ll walk.
You tell me if I don’t fix my face, I’ll walk.
I’m sorry. I’ll walk if that makes you happy.
I know you’re tired. I know you’re stressed.
I know you’re in pain.
I’ll walk, and I’ll walk—
I’ll walk so far you won't have to feel it anymore.
You won’t have to be stressed.
You won’t be so tired.
Because I’ll be gone.
I walked home.
But is this home?
The air is held breath, the floorboards are ice.
This is hell and I can't seem to walk anymore.
I’m stuck.
Suddenly, I don’t want to do it again.
I want to fix my face.
I want to be the reason for your stress,
the reason you have no rest—
because behind all this,
is still your loving daughter.
I’m stuck,
thinking of the years when my legs were shorter,
and "walking" only meant the distance
between the front door and your knees.
Back then, I didn’t walk—
I ran.
I ran until I ran out of breath,
launching myself into the safety of your arms
before I even knew how to fall.
You used to catch me.
You used to reach for me.
But the sidewalk has grown longer now.
The space between us isn't a hug anymore;
it’s a threat.
I’m being told to walk away
from the same man I used to sprint toward,
and my feet don't know how to move
in a direction that leads me
further from you.
Apr 26
Apr 26, 2026 at 9:28 PM UTC