one day, I left.
I traded the sound of voices cracking and plates smashing for the lull of the open road wearing the  treads off my ties.
I traded our king sized bed for motels that smell like pot and the life I left behind.

I’ve burned a photograph of you and I in every state.

if your body was a road map, I took detours at all the places he touched you.
I took pictures with the camera you bought me (5 years ago to this day) of mountains and leaves as  green as your eyes because I’m not scared of you anymore.

I said my vows to the highway, and renewed them at every state line.