You painted the stranger like some goddamn saint.

Fine.

But strangers don’t carve you open.

You dragged the blade yourself, invited the steel right up under your ribs.

You whisper love like it’s a quiet dawn breaking inside.

I say love is a fist through drywall.

You call it reshaping the soul.

I call it finding the soft rotten spots first and smashing them until the whole frame buckles.

Still… you stood there in the spray.

No whimpering for it to stay.

No spitting curses as it walked out.

You let the rupture finish its work… gutted, leaking, breathing through the hole.

That’s not grace.

That’s fucking endurance with blood in your teeth.

Most people turn strangers into bedtime stories.

You turned one into a blood oath, initiation by knife, no safe word.

I see the scar tissue.

I respect the hell out of it.

But don’t breathe easy.

The next stranger won’t show up with pretty words.

He’ll come gloved, masked, scalpel already wet.

Surgical. Cold. No metaphor.

Just the slow peel-back of everything you thought was sealed.

And we’ll stand anyway.

Because the only holy thing left

is whatever’s still twitching after the cut.

The road doesn’t forgive.

It just keeps grinding foward. You painted the stranger like some goddamn saint.

Fine.

But strangers don’t carve you open.

You dragged the blade yourself, invited the steel right up under your ribs.

You whisper love like it’s a quiet dawn breaking inside.

I say love is a fist through drywall.

You call it reshaping the soul.

I call it finding the soft rotten spots first

and smashing them until the whole frame buckles.

Still, you stood there in the spray.

No whimpering for it to stay.

No spitting curses as it walked out.

You let the rupture finish its work, gutted, leaking, breathing through the hole.

That’s not grace.

That’s fucking endurance with blood in your teeth.

Most people turn strangers into bedtime stories.

You turned one into a blood oath… initiation by knife, no safe word.

I see the scar tissue.

I respect the hell out of it.

But don’t breathe easy.

The next stranger won’t show up with pretty words.

He’ll come gloved, masked, scalpel already wet.

Surgical. Cold. No metaphor.

Just the slow peel-back of everything you thought was sealed.

And we’ll stand anyway.

Because the only holy thing left

is whatever’s still twitching after the cut.

The road doesn’t forgive.

It just keeps grinding forward.

🔥 🩸