away, away, away

Wednesday, July 28

By Rajsi Rana

sometimes i think about running away

slipping between the wooden doors, down

the street, take a left, barefooted as the 

wind passes by, whispering uncertainties down my ears

would anyone watch me and wait

would anyone watch me and think me out of 


or would i blend in beautifully invisible, like

the crowd in new york

existing only for their memories

existing in photos of people, but never on

my own

existing as the face people remember as

they think of fear

existing as the last locks of hair someone 

saw as i ran




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