Muse 37: Where It Is Safe

found via dearskye

I used to believe that standing in the center of the road, where the doubled yellow lines mingled, was a safety zone. That thin space, where nothing more than a thin shell of a human could stand, had invisible walls that protected travelers from everything that hurt.

During those cold nights, when they sat in a festering silence that normally grew into a wounded battlefield, I snuck out of my room into the welcoming, scathingly cold air. Pushing myself until acid burned in my legs, I ignored the pain, and kept going... going, hearing the honking and storming of drivers who feared more for their own life. Still, I kept going, kept going until the cold air ate away my lungs, ate away the potential to live and run again. This might be what it feels like to be eaten when decayed, and the cold ground kisses my body as I rest in-between the lines, listening to the sounds of passing cars that narrowly missed my frame.