Outlaw

She was born with dust on her boots

and trouble in her shadow—

the kind of trouble

that follows you slow,

like it knows

you’ll never shake it loose.

They call her an outlaw,

but she never meant to be one.

Life just taught her early

that some roads ain’t straight,

and some sins

don’t wash off easy.

She’s ridden through towns

that whispered her name

like a warning,

like a prayer,

like a story told

to keep children indoors.

She’s stolen time,

not gold—

running from the woman she was

toward the woman she might be,

hoping the distance between them

counts for something.

Nights get long on the run.

The moon watches everything,

silent as a judge

with a tired heart.

But still, she rides—

not for glory,

not for fear,

but because the horizon

has a way of calling someone

not yet ready

to stop fighting her own ghost.

Maybe outlaw’s just another word

for someone who keeps moving

when the world tries

to pin her down.

And if that’s a crime—

then let the dust

be her alibi.