THIRTY-TWO

 

by the one who didn't fold in the fire

I’ve died a hundred deaths before this age.
Buried versions of me that never got a funeral.
Prayed with cracked lips and tear-choked lungs,
asking Heaven,
“When does the promise start to live?”

They told me 33 was when Christ ascended.
But no one talks about thirty-two—
the year before the crown,
the pressure before the public.

Thirty-two is where He walked with full awareness
of what was coming—
and still chose obedience over escape.

So here I am.
On the cusp of becoming.
With blood on my hands that ain’t mine,
wisdom in my eyes that no one asked for,
and fire in my gut that don’t shut off.

They thought I skipped the step,
but I was the step.

They thought I missed the number,
but I was holding the equation.

All the math led here.
Every loss.
Every late night.
Every locked door.
Every “no” that felt like betrayal
was a coordinate being plotted
on a map only angels could read.

I AM POSITIONED.
Not waiting. Not wandering.
Staged.
Steeped.
Sharpened.

Thirty-two is not a countdown.
It’s a call to arms.
To stand where others broke.
To speak what others silenced.
To build what others buried.

I don’t need another prophecy.
I am the fulfillment.

I don’t need applause.
I need placement.

So I step in.
Not as a shadow of who I was,
but as the evidence
of what happens
when time and truth
finally shake hands.

Thirty-two.
I’ve waited. I’ve warred.
Now I walk.