wipe that smile off your voice.

sick of keeping up appearances for the sake of looking fine—maybe
I’m not and maybe you don’t care but
maybe.

but maybe I know eventually it’ll all
even out, flatlined but a higher plateau than the stumbling valleys,
population me—you’ve
moved on, another chain or I’ve passed you, somewhere,
and I’ll keep on running

and it’s running to, not away from—

and I’ll keep on running