In a line around my bedroom

I measure my life in running shoes. When my feet can feel the road too well, I get a new pair. It’s a new calendar page.

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I keep all of the old running shoes in a line around my bedroom. Each is a different color and model. Each one has something to say about where it spent its time running. Eventually they’re going to overtake my bedroom. I won’t be able to get out. I’ll be stuck in my bed and I won’t be able to run. It will be ironic and I won’t deserve it.

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Weeks later my family will discover my body. They’ll come over because they are mad I haven’t been answering their phone calls and text messages. My sister will knock furiously before my brother kicks in the door. They will find me, and they will wish I hadn’t spend so much time running.