The things I've left behind me continue to remind me that I'm not as far from the past as I pretend. A brush under the rug won't help me make amends, but I'd rather turn and run than clean up the pieces that I broke. I used to think I was running out of harm's way but I realized I'm just running out of hope. And I have not a thing to show for all those times when I faced up my fears. As I got more answers things just became more unclear. Why try to heal when all you're left with is a scar? A scar is nothing but a story to tell. A reminder that you suffered through hell; and made it out not quite unscathed. A chance to share a painful phase. The wish that someone might shed a tear or offer a shoulder for my own. The hope that her shoulder could become my home. But as it goes I'm stuck by myself waiting to hear the phone. And the silence reminds me that my past has just caught up because I couldn't keep pace. I wish I could say I thought it'd end differently, but that just ain't the case.
End.
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