Instructions Found After The Fact Poem by Oscar Auliq-Ice

Fold strength into your pockets
like something you might need later,
but do not ask what it costs to carry it.

If someone says "be a man, "
check for exits in the sentence.
Not all advice is meant to be followed—
some is just inherited noise.

Speak only when necessary,
then wonder why your voice
feels like a room you are not fully allowed in.

If you are hurting,
translate it into something useful:
work, silence, humor, overtime, disappearance.
Do not be alarmed
if no one notices the translation.

Sleep where you can.
Call it rest.
Call it nothing.
Call it what keeps the day from asking questions.

If you are touched by grief,
do not assume it has a witness.
Some pain is private by default,
as if the world agreed not to interrupt it.

Still—
somewhere between instruction and accident,
you remain.

Not as symbol.
Not as role.
Not as proof of anything.

Just a man
learning, against habit,
that being seen
is not the same as being judged.

And that asking for help
is not a failure of strength—
but the first sentence
you were never taught how to finish.