I miss a lot of paths;
paths home from family member’s houses,
stone paths that lead to the doorsteps of past homes,
hidden paths in the field behind my old house.

I miss those childhood routes especially;
the route I walked to school,
the route to my bestfriend’s house,
the route through my bedroom when I shut off the lights and I scampered into bed.
Afraid, for once,
of the monsters under my bed,
instead of the ones in my head.

But I think I miss the city streets the most,
these suburban streets hold too much of my past,
they don’t change like the city does either.
Here, the ghosts still strut the same corners and intersections.
They eerily smirk at me from across the street.
I just keep my head down now.
Three more years I tell myself,
three more years until I’m out of this town.

People often ask of my plans for the future.
All I say is I’m leaving,
I don’t know where to,
but I am.
All I say is I’m sharing my story,
through art,
permanent on my skin,
permanent on paper.

All I say is I’m leaving.
All I say is I’m writing.

All I say is I'm living.