Scattered Allegiances

They tell you blood is thicker than water, but they don’t mention how often it stains. How it binds, not in love, but in quiet agreements never spoken aloud. The rules are written in glances, in silences, in the way certain names are never mentioned at the table.

You learn young: loyalty is survival. Smile through gritted teeth. Swallow the truth. Keep the peace. But peace, in this place, is just another word for surrender.

And then, something shifts. A crack in the foundation, a weight too heavy to keep carrying. You see, finally, that the hands that claim to hold you up are the same ones pressing you down. That the house you were taught to protect was never shelter—just walls built to keep certain ghosts from leaving.

You step outside. The air is sharp, unfamiliar. The ground beneath you does not demand your silence. And in the distance, you hear something unfamiliar: voices rising, not in obedience, but in something closer to truth. Not in fear, but in the kind of allegiance that does not ask you to disappear.