Trigger Warning

The gravel crunches beneath me,
louder with each step.
I scan the trees, the edges of the path,
listening for the hum of a bicycle,
a voice—anything out of place.

It was bright that day,
just before Christmas.
The air smelled of desert rain and creosote,
the mountains sharp against the sky.
I was focused on the rhythm—
my breath, my stride, the steady push forward.

Now, I run with pepper spray in one hand,
metal cat ears in the other.
Small things,
quiet warnings,
heavy burdens.