You said blood meant something. Said I’d carry your name like a flag. Said tradition was a spine, but all I felt was drag. You handed me silence like it was silver. Polished shame. Polite rot. Told me: “Son, don’t forget what you’re not.” But I kept every whisper. Stored it in the walls. Taught my tongue to disobey and watch the kingdom fall. I won’t take what breaks me. Won’t wear your chain like a crown. I unmake the line, let the name drown. You left me the rot, called it love, called it gift. I won’t be the heirloom you give to the world. No inheritance left— just me, and the rift. I was the golden echo. The polished lie in the frame. Sat still at the table, learned the rules, learned the name. Said “yes, sir,” “thank you,” “amen.” Held the weight in my grin. Dug a silence so deep I mistook it for skin. But I cracked in the places you thought were sealed. Now I rewrite the script with nothing concealed. Not yours. Not mine. Not blood. Not sign. Not bound. Not blessed. Not silence dressed. Not heir. Not kin. Not mask. Not grin. Unwrite the will— I begin. I won’t take what breaks me. Won’t wear your chain like a crown. I unmake the line, let the name drown. You left me the rot, called it love, called it gift. I won’t be the heirloom you give to the world. No inheritance left— just me, and the rift. Burn the banner. Bury the ring. Not a legacy— just a lock I’ve picked. And I walk. And I hum. And I leave nothing for them to fix.
