pride is a protest, in which we are expected to forfeit

lately i find myself shrinking. tired.

i'm kinda glad my dad died before "what is a woman" was nailed to twitter's doors.

he would still call me son,

but i think his fear would have been magnified

and i would have hated to talk to him about it.

he was raised the same way as walsh,

insofar as being taught to hate before anything else

and to view difference as shortcoming.

i am not unwhole.

but there is still an emptiness in me--

empty villages, broken glass, tear gas,

that rather would be green and overflowing,

covered in all colors and shapes and sizes and beaming with ethereal light

if not for the blanket denial and hydraulic press of fascism.

peace over power. forever.

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