The Escape
You learn early how to carry yourself like nothing touches you,
as if the cracked sidewalks and secondhand talk do not stick,
as if being seen at the wrong time with the wrong face
is not just another way of being asked to leave without being told.
Everything familiar starts to feel like a trap in disguise,
where ambition is a punchline and leaving is betrayal,
and every slow Wednesday night at the corner bar
is one more reminder that staying is the easy kind of failure.
You said small towns chew their own for sport then smile in church,
told me the trick is to pretend you are not trying too hard,
but your voice had that twitchy edge like someone who knows
exactly how deep the weight of nothing happening can cut.
The escape plan was never a plan, only a wish you repeated,
but no one ever really packs more than their regrets and a full tank.
Now when I drive through, everything still looks the same,
except the ghosts wear your face, and they never stop watching.