False Labels
I don’t know why people cling to borrowed names,
why truth is folded small to fit a box.
They stamp a label, call the work complete,
as if a word could end a living story.
False labels walk faster than thought,
lighter than understanding,
loud enough to replace listening.
They save time by refusing depth.
But names without roots do not grow.
They peel, they crack, they fall away
the moment reality asks
to be seen instead of sorted.
I am not what is easiest to say.
I am what remains
after the label dissolves
and only truth is left standing.