The Flock

You called it a legion.

How curious.

As though every open hand
must belong to a cult,
every voice that echoes another
must be reciting scripture
from a darker cathedral.

No.

I merely stood in the wilderness
and spoke aloud.

And those who had spent their lives
mistaken for ghosts
answered back.

 

You feared what gathered around me.

The artists with ash on their sleeves.
The insomniacs.
The self-made.
The wounded who learned
to cauterize their own scars.

You watched them circle
and named them demons.

I watched them arrive
and called them home.

 

You believed the greatest things you gave me
were tangible.

The flights.

The gifts.

The distance crossed.

The promises.

The theater.

How little you understood
the appetite of a creator.

Gold tarnishes.

Photographs yellow.

Memories decay
at the edges.

But disappointment—

Disappointment endures.

 

You gave me that in abundance.

A faith that trembled
whenever truth entered the room.

A righteousness
worn like painted armor
over wounds too frightened to heal.

I watched.

Quietly.

Patiently.

I left the door unlocked
for integrity to enter.

It never arrived.

Only explanations.

Only justifications.

Only another sermon
delivered by someone
who worshipped certainty
because uncertainty terrified them.

You spoke of virtue
the way a drowning person
speaks of land.

Not because you stood upon it—

Because you desperately wished to.

 

Yet I owe you gratitude.

Not for what you intended.

For what you revealed.

The crack in the marble.

The trembling beneath the halo.

The frightened child
beneath the prophet’s robes.

You became a lesson.

Then a symbol.

Then a verse.

Then fuel.

 

I fed upon the heartbeat
of every disillusionment.

Returned to it nightly
like a wolf returning
to old bones.

Again.

Again.

Again.

Until grief became language.

Until betrayal became rhythm.

Until every fracture
began illuminating the dark.

I consumed the lie.

The silence.

The hesitation.

The moments where character
was given every opportunity
to reveal itself—

and chose concealment.

And in doing so,

you became useful.

Far more useful
than either of us realized.

 

While you searched for devils,

doors opened.

One.

Then ten.

Then a hundred.

Then a thousand.

Faces appeared where silence once lived.

Voices answered mine.

Strangers carrying fragments
of the same strange constellation.

Not followers.

Not servants.

Not worshippers.

Witnesses.

People who recognized
the shape of their own scars
within my shadow.

People who heard the things
I was told should never be spoken
and answered:

“Finally.”

 

Perhaps from where you stand
it resembles an empire.

A black procession
moving across the horizon.

A beautiful monster
gathering souls.

Believe that if you must.

Every story requires its villain.

Every frightened heart
requires its demon.

If my refusal to kneel
became monstrous in your eyes,

then monster will suffice.

 

But I know the truth.

I did not summon a legion.

I found my flock.

The forgotten.

The exiled.

The self-authored.

The ones who refused
to amputate pieces of themselves
for the comfort of belonging.

The ones who chose truth
even when it cost them love.

The ones who walked through fire
and discovered they preferred the heat.

And every day
their number grows.

 

They have taken enough.

The years.

The silence.

The apologies demanded
for existing honestly.

The pieces of ourselves
offered to people
who mistook sacrifice for love.

Enough.

I will not beg entry
into worlds built upon performance.

I will build my own.

Stone by stone.

Word by word.

Voice by voice.

 

Call me demon.

Call me heretic.

Call me beast.

I have worn worse names
and made them beautiful.

While others guarded heaven’s gates
with trembling hands,

I walked willingly into the abyss

and found it crowded
with people exactly like me.

Waiting.

Listening.

Understanding.

And at long last,

I understood them too.

Not saints.

Not sinners.

Merely those who refused
to abandon themselves
for the comfort of a lie.

They called it a legion.

We called it recognition.

They called it darkness.

We called it truth.

And when enough forgotten voices
remember their own names,

when enough exiles
find their way home,

when enough ghosts
step willingly into the fire,

you will look toward the horizon
expecting a sunrise.

Instead,

you will see us.

Gathering at the edge of the world
like a murder of crows.

Wing by wing.

Shadow by shadow.

Voice by voice.

And together,

we will blot out the sky.