They dragged me in under that cold fluorescent buzz, ceiling cracked in one long line from the door to the bench like the whole damn building already wanted out. Judge sat pinched at the mouth, twelve jurors stacked shoulders no necks, all business. “Defend yourself.” I leaned back, looked him dead on and said, “I got nothing to defend, straight up. Came out like this—smooth, round. You hunting for a point? Shit… you already know what I mean.” Every single birth in this town better come out sharp or they treat you like a glitch from jump. Corkboard life—you the pushpin or you get swept quick. Mama glanced down, whole face went slack the second she clocked it. Doctor turned his back fast like he couldn’t stomach the sight. All curve, pure arc, one smooth little circle where the point should’ve punched through aggressive. They logged the defect in the books, called town hall emergency session. Law dropped clear and cold: “Cut or be cut. No space, no grace for the round.” I grew up soft in a household wired with thorns. Old man never dropped a gentle word, brothers stayed banging heads with anything that breathed. I tried grinding myself different late nights, edges filed raw. Shit didn’t take. Can’t force a river rock into a spear tip no matter how brutal you grind. Stayed smooth. Water did the patient work over time. Round. They want an edge. Blade that they wave is the ledge. Standing here round where the cliff gets paper thin. When the fuck did falling start feeling like a win? By twelve they took it to a vote, said I jammed up their perfect stab-first-ask-later machine. Marched me at dawn straight to the map’s dead end. “Walk where the compass just spins useless circles, riverbank long sunk. Trees out there ain’t built to last—they stay put, pointless as fuck.” But that forest was breathing heavy when I pushed deeper. Shapes with zero holes, every single one soft, stealing zero purpose from cutting, from piercing, from prying or stabbing. Just round. Under open sky, unbothered, untouched. Met an old man, head round like a worn ball, posted cross-legged where the mushrooms grew stupid tall. He spoke slow but direct: “They fed you the point equals purpose, thrust equals truth, sharp tip equals service. But peep the wheel. Study the sun. Watch the drop right before the river run. Every beginning starts round, every ending bends curve. Real care ain’t a cut. Love ain’t a slice. Whole world don’t spin on the edge of a knife—it turns on the axis of the shit that actually holds up. That holding shit is the you they couldn’t break, couldn’t sharpen, couldn’t take or fake. You that stayed round when the whole world ran wild, when the whole world ran—” So I stayed planted out there. Full year and a day. Watched round things quietly win—stones tumbling easy through river current, nests built whole and tight in the brush, zero cracks, zero breaks. Felt something locked tight in my chest finally loosen its grip. Hands still wouldn’t unclench easy, had to physically pry my own fingers open like old rusted gates. Knew it was time to walk back. Stand firm, never kneel. Step back in the square and tell every last one they didn’t know the real deal. You swear the point is the where and the when. Truth is the shit that goes around, comes back around clean. Voice cuts through clearest when you stop forcing the edge. Walked back into town head high and level, no bow, no bend. Guards rushed up quick. “You ain’t shaped right for the gate, the greeting, or the council chamber scrape.” I hit ’em direct: “Then break your own fucked law and let me pass through. That law you wrote is the lie you already knew.” Round. They want an edge. Blade is the ledge. When the fuck did falling start feeling like a win? So like I was saying, they dragged me right back in. “State your purpose. Why you still round in a world where only the pointed align?” I scanned all those tapered, drawn-tight faces—the ones who’d shaved themselves bloody just to earn a seat. Spoke measured and steady, done with the running. Quiet like a man who’d seen the far side and carried it back intact. “Y’all built a whole religion around piercing skin, staying loudest, deepest, always pressing in. But I walked where your map flat-out says there’s nothing to find—and that nothing ended up holding everything you abandoned behind. Mothers you silenced. Kids you sheared raw. The soft parts still breathing in you, you murdered them early. I’m back to remind every single one: roundness don’t end. ’Cause even your favorite daggers got curved handles for grip. Even your raw hatred got something it quietly serves. And that something it serves is the shit that goes around. Full circle. The ring that you shattered when you tossed your real self away chasing a spear tip and a spot in their line. Line is a—fuck it. Y’all just follow the sign.” Round.
