The road bends like a drunk prophet.
I hear the wind murmuring my name,
through teeth full of gravel and tar.

Each step I take is a betrayal—
boots thick with yesterday's rain,
the mud holding on like it knows
what I have left behind.

My thumb rises, a hesitant blade,
cutting the air, asking not for mercy
but a push in the right direction.

In the trucker's headlights,
I am nothing but a smear of a shadow—
a shape too hollow to recognize.

Cornfields bow their heads in judgment,
their stalks rustling like gossip.
The wind slips a cold hand inside my head,
rattling the empty spaces
I've been trying not to regret.
It smells like rust—
like the kitchen light I try to remember
if I forgot to turn off or not.

I walk—
Each mile is a dare.
Above, the stars look sharp enough
to break skin, and I wonder
if they've ever fallen for someone like me.

By the time the road bends into darkness,
I've stopped looking for salvation.
All I want is the sound of tires slowing,
a stranger's voice to remind me
that I am still here, still real—
stitched together by the fragile need
to keep moving.

But the road keeps taking,
pulling me deeper into its endless ditches.
I walk until the horizon bleeds out,
until my hunger becomes a thin, feral thing
growling on this road to nowhere.