The carousel spins

So tell me—
where does a story begin?
Does it root itself in the marrow of our fathers,
in the broken hymns of our mothers,
in the quiet curses passed through blood?

Or does it begin
the moment I lift the pen,
the moment I dare to fracture the cycle
and write myself new?

The carousel spins.
Formative years, formative fears—
do they decide the shape of a life?
Or are we more than the echo
of our childhood rooms?

I wonder.
Do we chase demons to hide the truth
that the only monsters are the ones we crafted?
That the cage I built—
with anguish, with agony—
was forged not to trap me,
but to tame the trembling inside my chest?

Now I charge a fee
for strangers to witness my storm.
And still,
I stare into the mirror—
and the beast stares back.

Tell me—
do I break the chains
I locked with my own hands,
or do I fly on broken wings,
bleeding into the sky?

Because here I am,
a confession without sin,
a reflection without peace.
Haunted not by ghosts,
but by the echo of a carousel
that will not stop turning.

And I—
I am not sure
if I will ever step off.