When home is measured in mile markers and tires on hot asphalt,
And destinations are found in obituaries and the tales of madmen,
Then you are never going to stop.
If the only constant is your brother at the wheel, singing his shitty music,
The sunlit grass beside old highways reflecting the green in his eyes,
Then you can’t say farewell forever.
When the blood stains on the upholstery testify to your success,
And your name is whispered among hunters and monsters alike,
Then you are too important to quit.
No matter what you try to change, you always end up here,
Riding shotgun with new scars; him smelling of sweat and leather, smiling like fluorescence.
You will always be a hunter.