Now That I Am Free

Now That I Am Free

My hiatus is over—
Black is back to being the New Black.

The prodigal son has returned,
so yes… you can call it a comeback.

I came from a place
where my humanity
was put on pause—

where my name
was replaced by a number,
a mathematical brainwash
that reduced me
to a temporary zero.

So forgive the frown
that now functions as my smile.

Forgive the thirty tattoos—
indelible badges of boredom,
some etched by my own hand
with sharpened staples
dipped in homemade ink—

a thousand pricks
piercing my epidermis
like a knife in the hands of an ex-wife,
leaving permanent protests that scream:

“I am still somebody.”

---

Now that I am free—
will you give me a job?

I brought my résumé.
My transcripts are stamped
by the Hard Knock University.

My alma mater gives no diplomas—
just scars
that read like calligraphy
on parchment skin.

Here’s my cover letter:
a career in microeconomics—

I’m fluent in the economy of 2-for-1,
where cigarettes and ramen noodles
can purchase a whole person.

---

Now that I am free—
will you help me find a home?

I saved what I could
from years of prison labor—

worked my way up
from kitchen duty
to manufacturing your license plates
for a dollar a day.

I might have enough
for a deposit.

I don’t need much—
my last place was just wide enough
to stretch my arms
and touch both walls at once.

Anything will do…
as long as I don’t have to breathe
another man’s feet,
or press my face through steel bars
while someone else uses the toilet.

---

Now that I am free—
I just want a real meal.

Something honest.

Where I used to dine,
everything was made out of turkey—
and the turkey
was made out of soybeans.

I’ve eaten ramen
for 2,920 days.

Even my tears
taste like chicken flavor packets.

You got seafood?

Let me tell you about the one time
they served gumbo—

tiny shrimp… real shrimp—

and the whole chow hall
fell into a silence
thick as the moment before a stabbing,
or the breath before a riot.

Then I realized—
it wasn’t fear.

It was memory.

That smell
had every man in that room
thinking about somebody
he used to love.

---

Now that I am free—
maybe I should find love again.

It’s been 2,920 days.

If she looks good…
I won’t mind
if she smells like gumbo.

And no—
it’s not always what you saw on TV.

But sometimes… it is.

Some men trade themselves
for stamps and candy bars.

I’ve seen a few of them out here—
in malls, with girlfriends,
eyes lowered when they pass me—

hoping what happened inside
stays buried
like Vegas promises.

---

Now that I am free—
forgive me in advance
for the nightmares.

Forgive me
when I wake ready to fight
because something
went bump in the night.

Don’t trip over the knife—
one in my pocket,
one under my pillow.

Don’t question
the all-black wardrobe,
or why it might take me years
to wear orange or green again.

Don’t move my things
without asking.

Don’t trust me
to trust you with my laundry.

In prison,
they will steal even your underwear.

---

I learned things in there—

how to make a stove
from toilet paper,
how to carve statues
from soap,

how to turn a broken radio
into a tattoo gun,

how to weave threads
from tube socks
into bracelets worth
a pack of ramen.

But now…

I need to learn new skills.

Like choosing toothpaste
from a hundred options.

Like not assuming
every closed door
is locked.

Like riding a bus
without shackles.

Like sitting on a rooftop
watching the sun
rise and set
at the same time in my spirit.

Like walking into 7-Eleven
at 3 a.m.
just because
I’m craving freedom.

---

Now that I am free—
can you help me be done?

Done with doing time.

Teach me how to shower
without flip-flops.

How to eat
with metal forks
on real plates.

Help me be free—
like Harriet Tubman
was my parole officer.

Help me forget my number
and reclaim my name.

---

Now that I am free—
I don’t just need freedom.

I need completion.

I need closure.

I need to be done
with doing time…

Because now—

I’m just getting started

with doing life.

---

🔥