I wake in suicide,

lucidity dulled by the comfort of chains.

Morning hums with surrender,

a quiet plea to propriety: tell me what to do.

A son by blood,

a son by expectation,

a son by the steady weight of obedience,

stitched together from borrowed names,

as if stillness were safety,

and safety a kind of grace.

As if freedom were fire,

a fire that sears false truths,

and submission a balm that soothes with validation.

I look up and search for something greater,

something that might speak,

offer direction,

permission,

a name.

The stars do not speak.

They return my gaze without favor,

without story.

The heavens do not hold answers.

The world is empty,

and because of that,

it is mine,

a quiet expanse where purpose has no hold,

and all paths are equal.

I ache with this futility,

but it does not leave me.

I carry it like a secret.

I move forward with it.

I become forward with it.

I am the hush between what I have been made and what I have yet to shape.

When tomorrows still call.

I answer in joy,

shedding the costume of certainty,

breathless,

lighter,

almost laughing.

I throw myself into the current,

into the disorder,

the salt,

the sun.

Look between what was and what waits.

That’s where I find me.