“You’ll never run again,” he says without looking at me. Cutting words. Biting words. Meant probably to inspire words. Didn’t mean it like that words. Nevertheless, hurting words. Shutting the door behind me, I eat my words. Chocolate-covered words that push back oceans. Candy-coated red words I keep in my purse. Fast food words meant to stop accident words and cops at my front door words and friends who don’t call any more words and razors cutting my baby’s arms words and a dad who won’t talk to me words and it’s probably time to move on words and some people I love have died words.

“I used to run,” I tell the faint sliver moon. Used to, but now my knee hurts, my hip feels tight, and there’s so much more of me. I’m too big. Too big for clothes in the regular part of the store. Too big I might break lawn chairs if I sit down too fast. Too big I must turn sideways to fit through turnstiles. Too big but still the pain swells to fit in all the cracks. Too big but still men like the one who slipped something into my drink and took me in the bathroom still look at me and smile. Too big for feeling this lost. Too big for all this love I have. Too big for all the love I don’t have.

I walk in my new bright shoes. I walk in the dark, so nobody will see me. But I see. I see how the shadow of a bush can look like a dolphin. I see how the street lights turn the gutter into a golden river. I see a tiny solar light create a white starburst across the dark pavement. I see how my breath comes easier when I move. I see how I’ve fallen in love with words and Peter Pan and vulnerability and truth. I see how pain can be stuck but then unstuck. I see how running isn’t the goal, but that nobody should ever say nevers to people they love. I see how I’m still walking. I’m still walking.