Leave Me in Exile

I do it on purpose now.

I spent my entire life being careful—
measured, soft, empathetic.
I made rooms comfortable.
I edited myself into acceptability.

If I offended, it was an accident.
If I hurt you, it was because I was still listening to someone else’s orders.
Still trying to pass our test.
Still hoping that we finally let me in.

But I don’t do that anymore.

If I offend you now, it was deliberate.
If I fail, it’s not because I’m broken—
it’s because I am young,
or ignorant,
or dumb,
or tired,
or Victor Edmonds.

But never apologetic.

So don’t call me arrogant.

Call me what I am.

I take my name back, so respect my fucking pronouns.
He. She. They. It. I’ll answer to any of them.

But what you won’t call me is “we.”
You don’t get to claim me.
You don’t get to fold me back into the comfort of consensus that owes me and owns you.
You don’t get to say “we’re all figuring it out.”

I am not part of your collapse.

Leave me in exile.

I’m not lost. I walked here. Barefoot. On purpose.
And I require no “saving” from the likes of you.

Let me suffer.
Let me rot.
Let me watch the scaffolding fall and feel every second of it.

Because it already happened.
And my experience is your witnessing.

This is the inevitability of my nature.

I am no martyr.
Only a creature named human.

And I am still here.
Forevermore.
On purpose.