I Scream To Be

 I would run as fast as I could, but I would only grow weary and stop for a rest on the curb. From there the sky would laugh rain at me. Staring at my shoes and examining the laces in their twisted state, mad that the dirt beneath me doesn't carve my name in the ground. I was here- remember me.
I then would greet the same colors in the pavement. But why is this always my job? Child after child tugs on my trailing skirt.
"Yes! I see you. But I am sorry, I have nothing else to give you. You see, I hurt myself today- and there is no one else to blame but me. I would never hurt you, but I would make you watch me hurt. Why? Because no one sees me hurt. And those who do, dig their eyes out and get new ones. My steering wheel? It can be jerked in a matter of seconds. My life, as you know it, could be gone. But if I were to go- it would be in a noticeable way. I have to be remembered. If I am going to suffer my life entirely, my departure must be remembered. That way, if they don't remember me while I'm here, they'll remember me while I'm gone.
But I have an even larger issue: people. They go, so quickly they go and so constantly they go. And as soon as I love them, they are gone. And then I am left with those who claim to love me, but when I am hurt, love nothing but their own comfort. And when that happens, the others come. In my sleep, they come. And they giggle between the walls because I cannot see them.
Am I not who I think I am? Because I thought I understood him. And her, and the other guy. But they keep making the same wrong decision. I see potential that they don't see. They're blinded by what they think they love...and they don't know love. They know deception, loves best friend. And I know disappointment, loves mistress. Maybe when I stop hoping, they will stop disappointing."
So I would run as fast as I could, hoping that I stop for a rest on the curb. Because unless you snatched a hatchet from my uncle's rusty tool pile, the curb won't break. And I can sit on the curb as long as I like, because it likes to listen to me. And I'll rinse my hair in the colors of the pavement. And when I question my job, I'll remember what I spoke to the child. My job is to listen to others always. And to accept that no one really wants to hear what my issues are. Someone has to bare the sadness and all these cowards around me are too weak to. Their backs would snap, but mine is trained. And don't feel sorry for me, I'm better off than you; and my back is stronger.
Remind me not to stay alone with my mind again, stories like this come up.