Trying to Outrun Myself

Every time I try to outrun myself,

my feet lock to the floor.

The harder I push forward,

the heavier my body feels,

like something inside me

is begging to be faced

instead of escaped.

I picture the other side

peace, clarity, a version of me

that doesn’t flinch at her own thoughts.

But the distance feels endless,

like I was dropped in the middle of nowhere

with no map

and a heart already tired.

I tell myself to move.

Just one step.

Just breathe.

But my mind is louder than my legs,

and every fear I’ve ever buried

comes sprinting past me,

reminding me I can’t outrun

what knows my name.

I’ve tried speed.

I’ve tried numbness.

I’ve tried pretending I’m fine

because it looks easier

than explaining the war inside my chest.

Still, I stay stuck

watching life rush by

like I missed my cue to jump in.

Some days it feels like

I’ll never make it to the other side,

like forward is a language

I never learned how to speak.

Like everyone else is crossing bridges

I can’t even see.

But maybe this stillness

isn’t failure.

Maybe it’s my body refusing

to abandon itself again.

Maybe the other side

isn’t somewhere I run to

maybe it’s something I build

right here,

piece by fragile piece.

I don’t know how to get there yet.

I only know I’m still here,

still breathing,

still wanting more than survival.

And maybe that means

I haven’t stopped moving at all—

I’ve just been learning

how to turn around

and finally walk with myself

instead of away.