I have a voice and it is loud.
Some people don’t like because I have learned to be proud.
I like my voice, well I do now.
I like my voice because I now I stand up fo me.
I will not allow you to push me into your box.
So that means I am not humble.
I am not humble and I will gladly take it.
I am not humble because I fought and found value in myself and my words.
I am not humble because I developed a sense of dignity.
I have a voice and all you wanted me to have was a meager sense of self when you said it was ok to speak as long it was in alliance with your view.
And no I do not accept your view.
I do not accept you objectification, erasure, or manipulation.
I do not accept your worship that says so you should die.
I do not accept you “well meaning” prayers or blessing to purge me of my demons, because of those demons, that sin is my light.
I bask in that glory.
I will be loud and proud and when you try to bury me, I will climb high and shout from the rooftops I have to.
I am here.
I am here.
I am here and you will hear me.
You shouldn’t feel honored, but you should know just how important that one word is.
You see “friend” is a term that reminds me of self-decomposition.
Friendship for so long was the same as control and manipulation and
“if you don’t conform you are worthless”
“Friend” has been that rolling duffel bag version of baggage that I construct and reconstruct almost as much as I do the term family.
I learned that I can choose my family and cut off the toxic bits that were poisoning me and contributing to my timely demise.
I learned friend was a choice, something precious that not everyone gets to hold, no matter how much they demand it.
“Friend,” I say it again “Friend”.
I have deemed you worthy.
I do not consider you a person to wear one of my countless faces around.
No pretty painted mask.
If I consider you my friend, and that is the distinction.
You witness my dark, my grim as I dance around in a pretty white lace dress and canvas shoes, the epitome of decay covered innocence, with my afro puffs standing tall against the users and abusers, bubbles in hand.
Bubble kisses so sweet cause I took down a brick so we pass notes back and forth.
I called you my friend and meant it.
When people ask me about church.
Polyamory means love.
Means changed plans.
When that goddess warrior you love is dead.
Because you’ve opened your world to so many different experiences.
Means being open.
Polyamory means being scared, but being brave enough to open yourself up on varying levels over and over again.
Means teaching the world to love.
When you want to die you can be so creative because you don’t give a fuck.
You don’t care enough to let people force you to hold back the truth because that’s what we as humans do.
We call it courtesy, but really when you ignore everything about our current socio-political climate, it’s murder and oppression.
An artist doesn’t hold back the truth because we say:
“Hello! I love the fantasy!
I live it!”
” I love the fantasy because I live in that fantasy. Pretending every day that I don’t want to put that pretty hypnotizing dagger to my wrist because the reality is the reality. I am still here because, in that darkness, I can still see tiny glimpses of the good in the world and what could be if we face the cold hard stuff.
Face that shit that is sticky and heavy with the weight of an imploding world and learn to really love each other.
Love each other because we see each other. We are not (color)blind. We do not ignore. We see and we still love.
Because that is humanity. That is what makes us human.
That is what the artist brings. That is what we create, spin with our words and colors.
This is the web I weave because when I go out it will be with a creative bang of …
fuck being so wrapped up in my ignorance.