Title: Witness I I will not bend the word I know. I will not sell the light I hold. The room can dress it up as mercy, the bill still lands in full and cold. The world may ask a softer lie — a smaller bruise, a cleaner line. I answer with a quieter “no,” and let the silence do its time. II They dress the truth in prettier names. They sand the edges, bleach the stain. They call the wound a kinder thing, like saying it enough makes it less plain. I keep the name it always had. I keep the cost. I keep the sting. I keep the note that wakes me up when I’m tempted by a softer ring. IV If I must stand and stand alone, if every friend becomes a door, if every answer I am offered costs me something I can’t ignore, still I will not un-say the yes that made me who I was before. Still I will keep my eyes open when the crowd keeps asking for more. V The body breaks. The hour ends. The names get filed, the candles burn. The chair is empty after all, but not the part that had to learn. What I have seen, I will not hide. What I have loved, I will not bury. What I have carried in my chest I hand back clear and not too early. VI There are cheap roads, lined out in chalk, that lead you straight to being liked. There are soft hands ready at the gate to take the edge off what you write. I’ve seen the ease in everyone, the quick look down, the practiced shrug. But I was not made for that kind of peace, I was made for the harder truth I trust.
