The Things I Won’t Say

Running from myself is like driving a hollow at dusk
down Browns Fork—trees leaning so close
they form a tunnel. I think I’m escaping, 
but the land is just a ribcage closing around me.

It’s a Whippoorwill road past Thelma,
a switchback where blame stacks so tall
it throws my shadow off the edge.
I drive toward a gentility I don’t possess, 
passing coal trucks piled high with the things I won’t say.

My identity is a blind curve—
too narrow for two versions of me 
to pass without one going over the edge.

I’m not running toward anywhere—
only stirring up silt in the gravel 
until the rearview disappears. 
Underneath the roles I play, 
parts of me stay scarred by coal dust,
hidden from every mirror.