I Can’t Outrun Myself

I’ve tried—

God, I’ve tried—

to outrun the parts of me

that keep dragging me back

into the places I swore I’d never return to.

I’ve run until my lungs burned,

until my thoughts blurred,

until the world around me felt

farther away than my own heartbeat.

But no matter how fast I go,

no matter how far I push,

I always find myself

waiting at the finish line.

I can’t outrun myself.

Not the memories I buried in shallow graves,

not the habits that linger like ghosts,

not the ache that rises

when the night gets too quiet

and the truth gets too loud.

I keep hoping distance will save me—

that miles will become medicine,

that new places will give me new skin.

But I carry the same bones,

the same bruises,

the same soft, stubborn heart

that refuses to forget.

Some days I feel like two people—

the one who wants to heal

and the one who keeps sabotaging the healing,

locked in an endless chase

around the ruins of who I used to be.

But maybe the answer

isn’t running.

Maybe it’s stopping long enough

to look myself in the eyes

and say,

I’m still here.

I’m still trying.

I’m still worth saving.

I can’t outrun myself—

but maybe

I can learn to walk beside her.