Though I myself seem to be quite unprevailing in the subject,
I do commend the habit of getting up off your ****,
yawning your door to the open sunlight,
and taking a look around.
A look around for life's invisible flames,
for the little inferno's which blaze in the tundra like spiritfire.

As mentioned, I've been growing duller to the searching of these lights,
but it seems this could only be the case because I might just have completed the hunt.
I have found my spiritfire.
And upon this realization I have discovered a true reason to to be looking at all. The worth of finding what it is you hadn't know you desired:

- My spiritfire is everything I live to experience on this earth in corporeal form. I don't ever want to let go. -

And from this, I say, readers,

Search for all the invisible flames

As all my peers soar skyward,
kissing the clouds in blind bliss,
I unearth myself from the delta
caked in the sour aftertaste of an existence attempted.

"How do you enjoy the winds up here?"
They ask out of ignorance, not even looking for they believe me to be right behind them.

Well, try looking at the stumbling speck at the ground, *****.
You've left me behind.

I know it's not their fault.
My burden to them is my own doing.
But why would I ever admit that?

I'd rather be rageful.

When we illuminate the tired evening's west horizon in the light of all our invisible flames.

I can’t be proud to be descended from kings and explorers,
Because that pride is gone as soon as I arrived to the world.
Now, I am the son of slavers. Of rapists.
It’s not empowering to be the default.

I am not a victim.
Victims aren’t born privileged.

What a feeling it is
to be born to the perfect putting-down of people like myself.
Because people like me had their time in the sun
And now we must recover from the high which I was never here to experience.

"Colonizer *******!"
"You have it easy."
"She can do so much better than you."
"Why aren’t you stronger?"

For the mistakes of my forefathers,
I am a sin.

I am a good person… right?

Yes, a far too empathic person for my own good.
I weep aloud even for inanimate chairs which are beaten, broken and bruised upon the floor of a 5th grade classroom.

So why is it
that so many of my thoughts whisper of an alternative nature?

“I wonder what angle I’d need to snap their neck cleanly.”
“How easy would it be for me to convince this person to **** themself? If I gain their trust beforehand?”

I am terrified. Terrified of myself and what I might do.
Are others scared?
Scared as I am?

~ “If you relived that moment, what do you think you would’ve said to him?”
~ “I wouldn’t have said anything.
I would have punched him in the throat, slammed his head against the floor and kept hitting him.
Again.
Again.
Eyes,
Nose,
Throat.
I would keep going until my hands broke,
Until he lost any hope in his eyes and lost the strength to fight back.
I want to see him drown in his own fluids as I laugh in his face and in the face of his parents.
LAUGH AT THEIR TEARS!”

Since then, my therapist has not looked at me the same.

I am a good person. A healthy person.
So why am I beginning to doubt this?

Do others really know me as well as they think they do?
… do I know myself at all?

Self-doubt is screaming
- Self-doubt is persistent
- Calm

- A warning
- A punishment
- A reward

- Self-doubt is hateful
- Hated
- Loved

- The part if me I want to be listening to
- The part of me I enjoy the regret of having

- The bumps along the way
- The bumps I fear
- The bumps I hope
might hold me welcome,
if I dive over
and into them.

- What keeps me away from the sun

I don’t want to be here.

Of course, I can’t say that to anyone.
Anyone and its faces alive and happy.
Why should I ruin their day?

I just need to hold on till it ends.
Of course, it’s only just started.
The sacrifice of one for the many.
Right?
But that sacrifice is always me.
And I let it be.
Why shouldn’t I let it be?

Why do I feel this everywhere I am?
I keep expecting that when we leave I can be in a place of peace again,
But it never comes.
The bed I sleep in even is a place of fear and a wish to be elsewhere.
But where else can I go?

Nowhere is home for a martyr of the many.