Born. That’s what the hoodie says. Like it’s supposed to mean something. They print it in big white letters, as if life came with a choice. I didn’t choose to be here. I just woke up one day in a body that never fit right, in a world that spoke in currencies I didn’t understand. They told me to smile for the camera, to say thank you, to fall in line. I learned quick that smiles get you eaten.
So I stitched my own skin out of shadows—hood down, glasses on, skull paint thick. People don’t look too close when they think you’re dangerous. They don’t ask what’s under the mask if the mask scares them enough.
The truth? I’m not here to scare anyone. I’m here to survive the noise. The noise of voices telling me who to be. The noise of eyes that measure you like meat. The noise of clocks that tick like a countdown.
Maybe the word BORN on my chest is a warning. A reminder. I came into this world without permission, and I’ll leave it the same way—quiet, without asking. But while I’m here, I’ll sit in this cross-legged calm, wearing death on my face so I can keep living without them touching me.
