running into the mirror

running into the mirror

You keep chasing after him—
feet blistered on asphalt,
lungs bargaining with the night.

Every poster on your wall
whispers rebellion,
but the ink stains your palms
like unpaid rent.

The chorus of your friends
still believes in neon destiny,
yet the streetlight flickers,
reminding you:
dreams are not debit‑free.

You keep chasing after him—
but who is chasing you?
The clock, with its unkind grin.
The mirror, with its unedited glare.
The voice that says:
grow up, or be grown by circumstance.

And still you run,
half‑convinced the sprint itself
is proof of being present,
half‑terrified that the finish line
is nothing more than
a folded bill in someone else’s pocket.

.