To the Man Who Still Salutes,
You raised your hand to your heart every morning. They taught us that at seven years old, remember? Face the flag. Say the words. Don’t look down.
But I looked down that morning.
I saw the paint still wet. I saw the red bleeding—not dripping like paint does—but pooling, the way blood does when it forgets it belongs to a body.
That was the first lie.
That the flag was fabric.
It wasn’t.
It was a filter.
A symbol programmed to overwrite grief with pride.
A banner made not to inspire, but to erase.
You asked why I vanished. Why I ran into the night with nothing but a matchbook and a can of solvent.
It’s because I touched it.
They said it was treason. I say it was proof.
When I peeled back the red, there were names underneath—not slogans.
Names they’d deleted.
Names like yours.
You don’t remember being erased. That’s how good they are. But I do.
I remember you when you used to write poetry in the margins of the old textbooks.
I remember you before your voice was smooth, when it cracked during truth drills.
Before you traded your silence for their anthem.
There’s a storage unit off Mile 19. Ask for “Sparrow Ledger.”
Inside, you’ll find the archive: receipts of red. Pages that shouldn’t exist. And the second half of this letter.
But be warned.
Every time someone reads the true version of the flag’s design, a city forgets a street.
They will come.
When they do, ask yourself:
“If she stole red from the flag, what color are you still bleeding?”
Don’t salute.
Remember.
— R.
