Curiosity Never Kills

I have never contemplated

killing myself.

Not because

I am always strong—

but because

I am curious.

Curious

like a Black woman

standing at the edge

of the ocean,

braids whipping

in Atlantic wind,

wondering

if the water remembers

the plight

of my ancestors.

I do not possess

the courage

to wound my own flesh

or sabotage

the grand structure

of my mind.

Have you ever tried

to break stained glass

from the inside?

No.

My fear

is too practical

for tragedy.

I am afraid

I would fail.

Afraid

I would attempt an exit

and survive—

paralyzed

yet alive,

stitched together

like a half-finished quilt,

with doctors

whispering prognosis

like I am

a science project.

Can you imagine me?

Mouth twisted,

limbs renegotiating gravity—

still here?

No, thank you.

If I must endure,

let me endure

whole.

Besides,

I have already done

the most radical thing:

I surrendered.

Not the white flag

surrender

of war movies

and exhausted generals.

No—

the kind

where a Black woman

with tired feet

and holy defiance says:

God, universe, ancestors—

take the wheel.

You drive.

I have sat in silence

and let the sky

rearrange my breathing.

When I have felt

like I have nothing left

to give,

I have discovered

I am still plugged into

something infinite.

That is the scandal:

I have too much energy

to quit.

My cells churn brightly

in my body

like fire

shooting from a torch,

like a passport

begging for stamps,

like a map

whispering—

South Africa,

Zanzibar—

somewhere warm

where my laughter

can stretch its legs.

I want to taste cities,

kiss new languages,

walk through markets

and buy fruit

I cannot pronounce.

Death can wait.

Tomorrow

is not guaranteed—

yes.

But neither

is sorrow

permanent.

The present moment

is right now.

Right now

my heart is beating

without my permission.

Right now

my lungs are negotiating

oxygen

like seasoned politicians.

Right now

I am alive—

and that feels

suspiciously

like a dare.

So no.

I have never contemplated

killing myself.

I have contemplated

recalibrating.

Resting.

Leaving rooms

that do not clap

when I enter.

I have contemplated

becoming softer.

I have contemplated

boarding planes

with nothing

but a carry-on

and audacity.

I have contemplated

living so fully

that when my time

does arrive—

whenever it arrives—

I can say:

I did not fold early.

I did not surrender

my pulse

to a temporary storm.

I stayed complicated,

Black,

breathing,

and curious

about what happens next.