Photo by https://unsplash.com/@katiemoum
How to escape
The gravity
Of things that are tied
To your back
Neatly stored, messily packed
In an old, tattered sack
Of memories?
How to jettison
The grave errors
And sunken relationships
The battle wounds
Earned and inflicted
The scars and reminders
Of conflict?
First, I’ll get myself
A brand new backpack
The approximate size of my life
Toss everything into it
Cram it with stuff I did and had
Whatever exists outside of me
Of Me.
That rucksack
Brimming with my takes and mistakes
I will set down from my tired shoulders
And walk away quickly
Without a backward glance, however longing
So there are no lingering ghosts
Of regret.
Then, I’ll buy myself
A chrome-plated shiny machine
With two cylinders
And forty-seven horses
That would launch me
Into the deep
Of oblivion.
And only then perhaps
Free of everything
I will finally
Escape.
