Ten

When I was ten,
I use to dream of
running away. I’d
lie in my bed
at night with
the blinds pulled
open and the
curtains divided
so that I could
stare at the sky.

With every rise
and fall of my
chest, I could
nearly feel the
cold, soft grass
under my feet. I’d
imagine breathing
in a warm, summer
breeze and exhaling
my worries away.

But then I’d make
the mistake of
blinking. The
realization that
I’d never be
enough would
reenter my
thoughts until my
blinking turned
to sleeping.

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