I Don't Know What I'm Supposed To Say
I came with light cupped in my hands,
not stolen—no—
but kindled slow through nights
sun set the guards had watched.
And those who knew my childhood name
stood in the doorway,
arms folded with the memory
of who I used to be.
Is this now the man, they whispered,
of a past.
Who stumbled over simple things?
Who are we to call him what he is today —
quoting text
when we recall his yesterdays?
So truth knocked gently—
not with thunder,
not with flame—
but like a man returning home
with something fragile in my chest.
And they did not open up nor did they set me free.
For honor is a distant bird—
it nests in foreign trees,
it sings for listening strangers,
it startles at familiar hands.
And I, unwelcomed in their place
that taught his voice its sound,
turned not bitter—only quiet—
and carried what was given me
to those who had no memory
to stand against belief.
There is a sorrow in it—
but also a kind of freedom:
I stood measured
by those who remembered my beginning,
and by those who can see what I have now become.
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