Run, girl. Run.

Run, girl. Run.

They're going down a path you can't follow.

Each step littered with paper like contraband in prison,

Each paper a trigger,

Each trigger a promise pulled with stately intent,

Each intent a breach.

This revelation feels cold like leaflets left in your mail.

You are irreparably changed, shaken, by a collection of paper.

Run, girl. Run.

Now the trigger feels tight, restricting,

You're being smothered under water you know isn't really there.

This has happened twice now, the paper promises thrice more.

I can feel your hand slip down like the promise of imprisonment, of being less and more and less than you were before that piece of paper.

Run, girl. Run.