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Run.
The moon is fat tonight. Shining on me, young wild free; eating me up like the boy I left standing in the café. Staring blankly at his phone. No text off me. Nothing. His brows; thick like thumbs, shaped almost flawlessly, but patchy; furrowed into a frown. I’m fifteen minutes late. I’m not arriving. I watch him silently, softly, through the window – big, clear, square. Everything is contained in that café and his world is going to crash.
Run.
I wave to him, a goodbye, a soft, a sweet, a small goodbye. He doesn’t see.
***
My name was Annie and I had blonde hair, shoulder length. I flirted like a Scorpio and smiled like a Pisces. Everything was water but I don’t have the heart of a Cancer; soft, sweet, small; I’m a Sagittarius, through and through; young, wild, free – reckless, blunt, bad. Bad. I’m made of fire and air and that combination is something I don’t think anyone could handle. I couldn’t, but I was learning.
The boy in the café fell in love with a hologram and I don’t think I’m sorry.
Run.
I ran.
I kept running. London, Manchester, Cardiff, Wrexham – run, run, run. They don’t know you here, Annie, Claire, Nicola, Alice; the boys can look at you like you’re something special and you can only see him – him, him, him – I mean – run, run, run. Keep running. Keep moving. If you keep moving, you can’t think.
Run.
The air sign moon; Libra; the lover, the flirt, the romantic; she trips me up when the Archer is trying to pellet his arrow into a new plane, a new city, town, heart; she kicks out her toes, trips me up, I stumble, stumble, stumble and fall into a memory of chocolate eyes and big hands.
Big hands. I remember the big hands. My own hands fit into his like a lock and key – that never happened with anyone else; too long fingers; too big palms; I scream too much and I always had. It was all in my hands. Bitten down nails and smokey fingertips. He was worse.
He was a fire, fire, fire, too; this meant he hated commitment and even though I hate commitment my heart can still get licked up by flames. Just his? I don’t know. I like thrills and there is nothing more thrilling that combustion.
Oh god, I’ve done it again; run.
He bit down hard into my skin and stained me forever.
“You’re too intense,” he whispered to me once, as I was melting into his fingers, melting into his bed. “You’re so fun but you’re too in love,” he muttered in my ear. “You know I don’t like commitment.”
I had said the words, I had not been told the words.
“You know I don’t like commitment.”
Eight syllables that feel like unhealing stab wounds, my arteries, my intestines, my blood and guts; pouring right out into his big hands and he doesn’t even see.
Run.
I left him in a whirl and thought: I’ll show you intense. I’ll show you impulsive. I’ll show you, I’ll show you, I’ll show you.
It’s been three years and I don’t remember the girl that fell in love with you, I only understand this skin I’m in now, this skin that searches for something in the stars.
I understand myself better than ever; and that is by not understanding myself at all. I know that I fall in love easily; with eyes, hands, voices, accents, messy skin, fresh lips. Girls that look like a night full of moons, boys who taste like a saltless ocean.
I understand that I fall in love easily – I am a Sagittarius; I am in love with the world; with corpse towns; moth eaten castles; houses with spirit. Long road that twist and wind like the trunk of a robust tree. Lustful Libra likes to trip me up by attaching me to pretty people with bad intentions – when you love to travel it is hard to find home, so you begin to search for it in people.
Run.
I am learning it’s okay to be alone.
Run.
I am learning it’s okay for me to be ever changing, everlasting, evermoving. Movement is good, it keeps the flow of the blood, the beat of the heart.
I am okay to not have a home, I am okay to not have a self; I am okay.
About Tilly Foulkes
Tilly Foulkes is a seventeen year old from rural Wales, studying History, Literature and Politics. She enjoys women monsters and freedom. She's trying her best.
