By Grace Batronis
runaway
my mind loves the underdeveloped
polaroid of me in the dark, wander
-ing, like my neck loves the chill that's running
across it. the tree's lit matches get blown
out by the wind and still I ache for the
path they burn, like a siren tethered to
land. I have no bags to pack. no lists to
plan. no souls to promise that I'll be back
again. like ocean spray in the beating
rain, like Hamlet's ghost once justice is had,
I'll fade from the scene on a starless night,
on a foggy day, in the absence of
light. let me race until my heels blister
and burst and wear through the soul of my lungs.
Grace Batronis is a sophomore English major who lives just far enough away to make it a hassle to visit her cat (and maybe also her parents) on weekends. She enjoys researching obscure historical figures, sketching, and reading YA fiction. She is one of this year’s co-editors of Caesura.