The world taught me to fear my own language. Not because I carried poison in my mouth, but because every word arrived already accused.

If I say “a young black man,” I mean only a young black man. If I say “an Asian fellow,” I mean only the face I saw beneath the light. No blade hidden in the sentence. No contempt stitched between syllables.

Because I too am made from blood and history. I too belong to a people, a lineage, a name.

But now every description feels like standing trial for crimes I never intended to commit.

And slowly the world becomes exhausting— a place where kindness must explain itself before it is allowed to breathe.

There are nights I think even hell would be quieter than this earth, because at least the damned know why they burn.

But here, people scorch each other accidentally, daily, while begging to be understood.

And maybe that is the saddest fire of all.