Desire of a Temptress
The longer you run, the more they chase.
At least, that’s what they told me.
And I complied.
Because that’s what women like me do.
When your own heart seems to fade, you run.
You run, so the heart remembers its own existence.
You run, so the heart remembers to beat.
And I ran.
I ran until my lungs threatened to ghost me.
How ironic.
I ran until my limbs dragged on like lead in the ruins of my own angst.
I ran until my bones shook with the force of my sheer will to outrun my very own shadow.
And suddenly,
Attention.
The men piled up like bedsheets on a laundry day.
Each one treating me like a conquest for their own egos.
But I seem to have forgotten how to stop.
I run and I push.
I run and I slam doors.
I run and I’m labelled.
Untouchable.
Yet at the end of the day, all I am is untranslatable.
Unreachable.
Unattainable.
I was told the more you run, the more they chase.
When all it does is amplify your bone-rotting solitude.
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