If Hell Has an Exit
If hell has an exit,
it looks nothing like triumph.
It looks like a girl with shaking hands,
hair wild from wind or weeping,
eyes that forgot what softness felt like—
and still,
she stares into the lens.
Still,
she doesn’t look away.
If hell has an exit,
it isn’t golden.
It’s not paved in glory.
It’s rusted bolts and aching knees,
a door you had to break with your own shoulder
because no one else came.
Because screaming didn’t work.
Because love was supposed to—but didn’t.
If hell has an exit,
maybe it’s just this:
you,
alive,
on the other side.
Not polished.
Not pristine.
But breathing.
Barefaced.
Unafraid to be seen.
You didn’t crawl out for applause.
You clawed your way to light
because the dark forgot your name,
but you never did.
And now,
here you are.
Disheveled.
Still sacred.
Proof that if hell has an exit,
you are it.