Always the Exit

She does not enter a room—
she scans it.
Every corner,
every shadow,
every face wearing
something too close to kindness.

She finds the exits first.
Then the weapons.
Then the smiles she doesn’t trust.

She listens
for footsteps
that no one else hears,
for silence
that lasts one second too long,
for laughter
that lands like a threat.

Even calm
is suspicious.

Even safety
has teeth.

Her heart is a trapdoor
with no floor beneath it—
always ready to drop.

And still,
she appears normal.
She pours coffee.
She nods at jokes.
She folds towels
with hands that tremble
only when no one’s looking.

But inside—
she is electric.
Coiled.
Primed for the moment
it all goes wrong again.

Because it always did.

Because it always could.

And this is not fear.
This is memory,
welded to instinct.
This is how a body learns
that love isn’t shelter—
it’s warning.

So she keeps her keys
between her fingers.
She keeps her back
to the wall.
She keeps her softness
in a locked drawer
she’s long since
forgotten how to open.

And still—
she survives.
That’s the miracle.
Not the calm.
Not the healing.
The survival.

Always
the exit.