Open wound (after Warsan Shire, ‘Home’ )

No one leaves Home unless Home is a pot of boiling oil.
You have to understand skin melts like cheese
and no one chooses to live in a body on fire.
No one could take the venom it injects in the mind.
Maybe it’s softer than a rock crashing into your head.

I want to go to the grave where Home was buried
but that is nowhere, for Home is a bag of money gone up in smoke.
Home is a story left unspoken.
Home is the teeth of a deadly cobra.
No one leaves Home until Home starts to poison them.