I ran away from the crooked frames on the wall,
Broken and cracked,
With a vow to leave and never return,
But the old clock on the wall still ticked in my ear,
The constant reminder of a past that would not be left behind.
I abandoned the books of my youth in a big box and left 500 nations
In my damp cellar to decay.
I gave away my clothes,
Leaving a pile of empty hangers that poked and prodded
While jam jars full of discarded bottle caps
And other childish wonders watched in fear from their shelves.
I emptied my drawers of all their useful items,
But somehow the useful and the useless mixed
In fleeting nostalgic moments.
The clock still ticked and the frames still hung,
Crooked and cracked and I thought I could leave it all behind,
But the empty drawers were still full and the outdated curtain fell,
Exposing me: the silly victim, the tragic, and the traumatized
Embodiment of the child who runs away,
Leaving behind the reflective fragments
Of the person they once were.