Line after line,
page after page.
It wasn't the writing.
It wasn't the hours, the yelling.
It wasn't what was, but what wasn’t.
Every day, same as the last. No end in sight.
But even more, no beginning.
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Hope.
Hope for the day when baking brownies would bring smiles and sunshine.
The day when reading under the covers by flashlight would be okay.
When I would be okay.
When I could roam until the sun barely peeked over the roofs of the homes on Overlook Drive,
And no one would care.
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The homes on Overlook Drive.
The big dogs that sit in front of the holiday doors.
The children in their front yards, tea parties, and toy trucks.
Is this what I was missing?
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School, and summer, and school, and summer, and school again.
Now, almost smiling, forcing, forgetting, there.
One foot in front of the other,
Crossing to temporary place.
A fleeting sense of security.
For what? Hours? Minutes?
Time is only number on a clock.
Still, wasting mine,
fearing the imminent moment
when it will reach out its hands
and drag me back
Home.