I Am the Question: Neither Leader Nor Follower

I—am not a flag.
Nor a gust.
Nor the hand that sews the flag
into winds that forget names.

I am the question.
The detour in the answer.
The sideways glance when certainty wears a crown.

Are you a leader or a follower?
the mirror asks me
after chewing on my breath and spitting it back
in reverse.

I say—
I’m the unclaimed whisper between them.
The comma
in your manifesto.

Leader? Follower?
Binary codes trying to quantify fireflies.
But I—I am the moth
who stares into the bulb
without asking for light,
without fearing the burn.

They say:
Leaders walk in front.
Followers fall in line.

But where does the earth stand
when both sink their boots into its skin?

Am I the footprint
or the erosion of direction?

I once followed
a man in a hat made of marble metaphors.
He led us to a lake and declared:
"Drink if you’re free."

I drank.
Then puked obedience for seven days
until my tongue forgot
the taste of doubt.

Another time, I led.
I carved tunnels through shadows
and painted maps with disappearing ink.
They followed me into silence,
praising the echo of my arrogance.

I wrote speeches in braille
so only the blind could feel my intent.
I wore mirrors on my chest
so they saw themselves
when they looked at me.

Was that leadership
or manipulation
dressed in a three-piece suit of myth?

Perhaps—
I am the space between boots.
The crack in the marching song.
The off-key in the anthem
that nobody admits to loving.

They want my answer
boxed, labeled, pre-approved
by committee.
"Check L for Leader
or F for Follower."

I checked neither.
I drew a spiral in crayon
and mailed it back.

They disqualified my application for reality.

But tell me—
what of the crow who sings in square rhythms?
What of the rain that ascends
back into clouds
because gravity was too predictable?

Me?
I’m a stumbler.
A zigzag theorist.
A barefooted metaphor
for resisting templates.

I led a march of shadows once.
We wore clocks as necklaces
and ticked in different time zones.
They followed my confusion.
I followed their rhythm.
We all collided
in a pile of maybe.

And maybe
is where I dwell.
Not in decisions,
but in the tension between two doors
neither of which are labeled “truth.”

I burned a leader’s handbook once.
The ashes said,
"Leadership is often mistaken
for the loudest throat
in the quietest room."

I kissed the ashes.
They tasted like forgotten revolutions
and morning-after regrets.

I also burned the follower’s oath.
It squealed.
Like a script that knew it would never
be improv.

They ask again:
Are you a leader or a follower?

I reply—
I am a third thing.
A myth with shoes.
A contradiction that walks.

I followed children
who painted borders with sidewalk chalk
and led elders into playgrounds
where politics were traded for hopscotch.

I led my fears into a room
and let them elect a spokesperson.
She wore my mother’s voice
and accused me of being
too much
and never enough.

I followed her
to the door
but didn’t open it.
That, too, is a form of leadership.

I once led a protest against
decisions made in whispers.
We screamed vowels until the city cracked.
A building collapsed.
Turns out it housed
the department of assumptions.

We mourned nothing.
Some buildings deserve to fall.

I followed a poet
who wrote with her feet.
Each step—
a stanza.
Each pause—
a revolt.
We wandered into sense.
Accidentally.

So maybe, just maybe…
I am a shapeshifter.
A political hallucination
with no campaign promises
except this:
I will not lead you into lies,
but I may walk beside you
into chaos.

I will not follow your rules,
but I may listen
if your voice smells like
liberation
and not perfume from the department store of power.

I lead when silence is betrayal.
I follow when someone
finds a better way to love.

And when neither calls,
I sit.
Alone.
In the orchard of nuance.
Eating the fruit
that others ignored
because it wasn’t Instagrammable.

So ask again, dear form-filler:
Are you a leader or a follower?

And I shall answer—
I am the seed
that neither marches
nor commands.
I rot.
Then bloom.
Then rot again.

Not for cause.
Not for crowd.
Not for crown.

But because
the soil whispered,
and I
listened.