The Knowing Returns

By Crystal Craig

I woke with the soft imprint of joy still pressed into my skin.

The sound of laughter, shared food, safe ground beneath my feet.

A sacred morning.

And then the knowing returns—

that in this same hour, others wake to cages, to steel, to sandpaper agendas stripping them of dignity.

There is no veil.

No nuance.

Only a grotesque display of cruelty—

broadcast like theater, defended like doctrine,

swallowed whole by people who preach kindness

with blood still on their teeth.

My heart does not break.

It ruptures.

With helpless knowing.

With useless fury.

With a howl that has no clean target.

I taste the edge of madness

in the space between gratitude and guilt,

between my daughter’s laughter

and a mother’s wail across a border.

There is no border for empathy.

I breathe.

I rage.

I remember the cost of silence.

This is not about politics.

It is about whether we will remain human.

I am frayed.

Still, I choose to stay open.

Still, I will not numb.

Still, I will speak.

Even when I do not know who is listening.

Because someone must name this.

Someone must refuse to look away.

And today,

that someone is me.