I Thought He Was the Suicide Bomber — But No, That’s Me

I saw him first,

in shadowed news,

a distant threat,

a twisted fuse,

blown by a truth he thought his own,

a seed of chaos, blindly sown.

I thought, “He's bound by dark design,”

never dreamed

that hand was mine.

But no.

That's me.

Each dawn, I rise,

ritual in bone and breath,

to rooms I never chose,

to words I never wrote.

They call it purpose—

sleek, efficient.

But I know better.

I call it

detonation by routine.

A slow explosion,

veiled in silence—

of time, of truth,

of all the sparks I called me.

I march the aisles,

a trench of glass and screen,

with spreadsheets clutched like triggers,

smiling through the gleam.

While underneath this collar,

my soul

lays bleeding,

a red no one dares to name.

I carry burdens not my own,

truths outsourced,

dreams on loan.

Morals fed,

unquestioned grace,

inherited laws

in a sterile place.

Decisions made in distant rooms,

then wrapped as freedom,

hiding dooms.

And when I doubt,

the world insists:

“Don’t think. Obey. Persist.”

“Cling to comfort, drown in pace,

Your quiet death will leave no trace.”

But deep within,

a fracture hums.

Not creed vs. creed,

or border drums—

but something older,

buried deep,

where shattered pieces

turn in sleep.

It's me,

the self I once betrayed,

the name I whispered,

then let fade.

And I, each day,

with weary hand,

pulled the pin

across this land.

But not today.

Today, I hear the wires hum.

I trace the lines I’ve grown numb to.

I see the shape of what I’ve done—

and choose

to come undone.

I begin to defuse,

not the world,

but what I choose.

I gather fragments,

lost, unspoken,

call back vows

I left broken.

And walk—

no longer a weapon,

but a witness.

No longer set to detonate,

but ready

to become.