We want.
We are wanting.
We car-crash our bodies beautiful
and relish in the pieces.
And we are scared.
We see the eyes of people,
our people,
who long to live in a world
where they aren't hated.
We cry for them.
For us.
We scream it in our music
and whisper it in writing.
The price for wanting:
guilt and shame.
But we still show up
because the absurdity of being us
it what keeps us living.