Dust and Tattoos
I.
I thought Iโd carry myself whole,
from Budapestโs bright embrace
to the dusty arms of homeโ
lessons etched as tattoos,
whippings turned wisdom,
the shine of surrender
making me anew.
But dusty roads have a way
of stealing your breath,
of burying who you were becoming.
Smoky windows blur the light inside,
and the life I learned to live
is suffocated beneath the weight.
Dust settles in my lungs,
on my skin,
and I am buried within myself.
II.
Oh sweet home, oh sorrowful walls,
your cracks hold my history,
your air is thick with stone-throwers.
A mother who never looks my way,
a sister carved from favoritismโs stone,
a brother who screams his poison,
a family that taught me how to ache.
No corner safe. No love unbarbed.
Each breath is a wound
and every wound is a lesson in survival.
I survive.
Not live.
Survive.
III.
Then, there is Kay.
Kay, with his better house in town,
Kay, with his borrowed peace.
Five years marked in love and betrayal,
a love that wears masks,
a peace that feels fragile,
a solace that cracks
when Iโm not near his arms.
I detach to protect myself.
Switch my soul off.
Learn to find my peace in distance.
Even with him, I know:
the dusty town still calls me back,
its fingers curling at my ankles.
The cycle repeats.
IV.
But this time, there is hope.
This time, I whisper to myself:
maybe one day, the cycle will break.
Maybe one day, Iโll stand in a house
where no one has thrown stones,
where the walls hold only my voice,
where survival isnโt the rhythm of my days.
One day,
Iโll rise brighter than before,
tattooed lessons shining on healed skin.
One day, Iโll step off these roads
and never look back.
V.
But for now,
the roads are dusty.
For now,
I go where the dust consumes.
For now,
I survive.
Country roads, you know what to do.
Lead me homeโ
but one day,
lead me away.
Lead me away from that dusty town.
