The air tastes of running
                                               kicked up dust and
                                                             ­           bleeding lungs.
                   You left your blond hair in a gas station bathroom.
                             You left more than that farther back.
                                                           Family.
                   Integrity.
                                                      ­                                      Freedom.
                  ­                  Oh, pariah, fugitive.
                                                       Your feet are never still.
                        Where are you going?
     Where are you running from?
                                      What are you becoming?

                                                      ­     h.f.m.