You run away from them, John.
You ran away from it, John.
You desperately crawled your way from it.
It's your pacifist nature, you say.
You say it was an excuse
for your cowardice,
for people to pity you, John.
Yet you ran from them too, John.
You run from all the people who offer help,
simply because you don't do confrontation,
simply scared of looking wrong,
scared of seeing watching eyes take sides—
just not yours.
So you need an escape.
So you find it, John.
You find it, and oh, do you run for it.
They should have seen it—
the way that tail was tucked between your legs
as you struggled to run.
Struggling to run, for you know it's wrong—
wrong to leave them guessing,
wondering why you've gone.
Struggling to run because you know it'll be a matter of time
before you need to run again—
a matter of time before you see those faces,
a look of confusion, sorrow—
all because you decided to just pack up and head out, to just—
run away.