To the One Who Walks Freely
(but carries other people’s stories)
May the truth find you
gently,
quietly,
like a thread you can’t untangle
no matter how far you travel.
You speak of struggle
but sip comfort with ease.
You wear other people’s histories
like borrowed coats—
warm,
but never yours.
You name Che Guevara
like a brother.
But I wish his bones
would rest in silence,
so we can speak again
without ghosts.
You weren’t born of him,
but you drink from his myth
like a holy well—
while my people
drink from rivers
you’ve never crossed.
You say there was war
where you come from.
I say
there was never peace
where I come from.
Your war ended.
Mine became a question
no border ever answered.
You walk cities
like poems,
with ease,
with permission.
I move like memory—
unclaimed,
untitled,
uninvited.
May you find what you're searching for.
And may the names you borrowed
find their way home.