Barefoot

There are two types of people in this world. Those who hit the breaks, and those who hit the gas. I’ve been running on my feet for so long, I forgot what it’s like to need shoes. I forgot what hot pavement felt like underneath my skin, what it felt like to burn. And for a while, I forgot pain. I forgot what it was like to be headed in a certain direction, what it was like to be afraid of where I’d stop next. I never wanted to stop, I never wanted to give up under pressure. I wanted to keep running until there was no muscle or skin left to protect my bone. I wanted to run until my hair wasn’t long enough to fly in the wind, because the wind ripped all of it out. I want to get to a destination, any destination and feel like I achieved something. I want my knees to buckle under me from carrying so much weight. I want my dreams to unravel in the sand in front of me, and tell me I’ve finally grazed my fingertips upon them. I want to scream until there’s no scream left in me. I want to feel like nothing holds me back, and like the earth isn’t shattering beneath me. I want my cut up feet to be bandaged up by my tears alone, so I don’t have to rely on a doctor or a friend to help me heal them. I want to forget my precious wounds ever existed. But I’ll carry them, I’ll carry them through every path my feet decide to take me again. There isn’t a single type of glass I haven’t touched with my bare feet, there hasn’t been a single piece that hasn’t cut me deeper than the last wound did. All I want to do is keep running, keep seeking solace in society’s unopened arms. I find peace in struggle. I find comfort in the next battle. I find love in being completely alone and disconnected from people.