Exit Wounds

Bombardier beetles

are curious little creatures —

bugs barely an inch long

with enemies ten times their size.

You see,

they don’t believe in warnings,

only litmus tests for justice.

They exhale acid

straight from their asses

whenever they feel threatened.

No press release.

No moral debate.

Just combustion —

biochemical honesty

fired like punctuation.

It’s grotesque.

But it’s genius.

Because it works like a charm.

And yet,

here we are —

a species with evolved language

and unevolved integrity,

speaking from the same exit

we pretend is sacred on Sundays

and deny is an entrance the rest of the week.

We spew opinions —

half-formed, over-shared,

drenched in projection

and disguised as defense.

We parade our half-digested logic,

stitched into grammatically correct flatulence,

and call it conversation.

We call it advice.

We call it therapy.

We call it art.

So much noise

from a hole built for exit.

Because somewhere between

the tailbone and the tongue,

we forgot

that just because something leaves your body

doesn’t mean it deserves an audience.

Because unlike the beetle,

we don’t defend.

We declare.

We don’t warn.

We whine.

We don’t protect.

We posture.

And for all our thrones, microphones, and metaphors —

at the end of the day,

we’re just shaved apes

pretending our exhaust

is insight.

Two cheeks.

One sphincter.

And a world of noise.

Tell me again

how free speech is sacred

when most of it smells like

it skipped the brain

and took the back exit.