Returning Home

I had three years of sunlight,
years of it got better,
and I was free from the place
I had begun to believe
would always be where I should be.

I’m walking a familiar path
overgrown as it always was,
and the icy breeze moves the
leaves every so slightly,
but the sun always caught up in the trees.

What the hell am I doing here?
I don’t belong here.
I see the path I clawed to be free,
dried blood on the pale leaves,
the only indication of attempting to flee.

Your smile held love,
the promise of freedom and hope
but you were just another devil
whispering me back to this place
then blaming me for returning home.

Can’t even look me in the eye,
the scars on my body are angry red,
I’m nothing special, the sign says
Welcome home scratched out above,
So I stop, sitting under the sign and breathe

Running led me in a circle,
to the darkness, the place I fear.
to the voice that smiles in welcome
while hearing the voice that fought so hard
strangle in my throat and die.

The smell of decay of wood and leaves,
the sounds deadening, maddening,
for silence here is in abundance,
and my cries to the sky unheard
even by my own ears.

I no longer feel the burn
of tears as they roll down my face,
they’ll eventually stop,
I remember from last time,
last time that I was here.

But the wood is thicker than before,
or maybe I never noticed,
and I know I should go
I should never allowed myself
to be led here.

For I understand the beauty,
in this dying place.
Understand the call all too well,
the destruction a siren
to people like me.

“I don’t belong here” I whisper,
but I can’t hear my voice.
What the hell am I doing here?
“I don’t belong here,” as I close my eyes
“I don’t belong here.”

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