The road is home, and the gravel under my feet feels like the couch I used to sleep on as a child. The road is home, and my mother knitted the blanket of stars I’m laying under, smoking a cigarette and eating what is left of the candy bar I bought myself. The road is home, and home is beautiful, home is lovely, home is love, home is cruel, home is breathless, ruthless, a big gasping slap in the face from my lover as she tosses me out and puts the frostbite in my fingers. The road is home, and this is what I try to tell myself as I throw up on the side of the highway, trying to get to a place where doesn’t feel like cactus in my toes and the slow burning of coffee in the morning, trying to get to a place where the road isn’t home, where I am home, my body is home, and I don’t feel as if I have to run anymore.