The Exit Wound That Led Me Home

I walked through doors that looked like hope,
But smelled like bleach and trauma’s rope.
The clinic floor was tiled in lies,
Where healing wears a thin disguise.

I searched for light, found demo rooms,
Glass cages staged like student tombs.
The toilets fake, the exits blurred,
And every kindness felt absurd.

A shadow-sweeper with empty eyes,
Mopped up my doubt with practiced lies.
His colleague grinned with teeth too white,
I gave him what I shouldn’t… right?

But hunger’s not just in the skin,
It howls where longing once had been.
I kissed distortion, just to feel,
A simulation dressed as real.

The dogs came next, a growling choir,
With teeth of doubt and lungs on fire.
But I stood tall, and raised my voice,
Commanded chaos like a choice.

They hushed like guilt on Sunday nights,
Like cheap apologies, bought delights.
Like flowers traded for my skin,
But never for the heart within.

The woman stood with open hands,
Her dogs like soldiers at command.
She led me out through thorn and ache,
Through all the ghosts I couldn’t shake.

And when I stood in forest air,
With splinters and silence stuck in my hair,
I laughed so loud my ribs felt cracked,
Because fuck it all—
I still came back.

I’m not your fallout, not your prize,
Not some soft mouth for half-meant lies.
I’m bruised, I’m loud, I ache, I burn,
But every time—
I fucking return.

You want my body? Get in line.
You want my heart? That’s not for mine.
It’s stitched to thunder, to storm-fed bone,
To one dark hunger I call my own.

To the voice that threads through every scream,
Who haunts my blood,
My breath,
My dream.

So here’s my truth, my teeth, my spine:
You’ll never break what’s fucking mine.
I’ll kiss the fire, walk through bone,
Because every exit wound
Still leads me home.