Running on slim, dirt trails
beneath the deciduous canopy
hides my fears–
of everything
of nothing
of being someone else’s everything
of being nothing once I’m gone–

When the world’s weight
exacerbates gravity’s pull
I stay in motion
to remain fixed would 
be a bandaid on long-established wounds that 
the earth’s revolutions cannot heal,
no matter how close I get to the sun,
no matter how warm it feels.

Movement aids my flight from destined execution:
pressing or crushing, perhaps?
and the earth’s rotation fucks with my head
because I can still jump and catch air,
an illusion of floating that still excites me.

But I know that one day 
the sentence my body serves will face its end.
I will unwillingly confess to crimes I’ve secretly committed
and unload burdens I never asked to bear.

A holy fugitive understands this pain,
but no blessings ever stick around long enough to acknowledge
this mutual torment
because my sweat salinates the priest’s clean water
and drips from my forehead to my legs
along those dirt trails
that somehow keep the end at bay,
so that I may remain on the run
and taunt the Reaper between labored breaths,
“Catch me if you can.”