but imagine just leaving one night and flying to jamaica or france or italy or australia or south korea or somewhere and not telling anyone where you are or where you're going next (but making sure to call your mom at least once a week to let her know that you're still alive and no you're not coming home soon and no this isn't about a boy it's about you and how you need to not feel like the walls are closing in around you anymore) and sending postcards from all over to people who spent their whole lives wrapped like shackles around your ankles and not signing them but instead writing lines from hemingway novels or dickinson poems or maybe just writing "fuck you" and letting them wonder about the postmarks and wonder about you and hoping they feel sick to their stomach when they think about their mediocre lives and maybe you'll end up changing your name and working in a flower shop on the coast of spain (even though high school spanish really, really didn't prepare you for this) and you'll go down to the beach every night and dig your hands into the sand and finally, finally feel like you can breathe