I know about silence; this particular one, so still, so unperturbed, so unquestioned leaves me stiff on a cold tile floor; staring up at the swinging fan.
Why does it swing so fast? Is it my eyes? I am trying to count it’s angles, but my eyes will not do as I tell it, is it my eyes?
I have come on this plain evening to question the silence. To look at the void squarely and not fear what it does to me. I need you to say something, it is not enough that you display your true skin in suggestions, in light, passive texts that rounds off as the haughtiest thing, a most inconspicuously degenerating substance.
The wind this evening, why do I concern my mind with it? Yes, I forget things these days. I never thought it would be this hard to pull out my skin from your draconian fist; holding it down. I never thought it would be so difficult to remember why I have to struggle to love a man.
I wake up most morning, hopeful that I might walk the streets without reservation, that I might wink at a boy that winked at me, that I might ask a boy for his number without fear, that at night there would be a sanctuary for me and my soulful brothers to converge and feel alive without looking over our shoulders for the disfigured law upholders, desecrating the rights they believe to be protecting.
But then I remember, and a whisper of disdain kisses me to life. My eyes swim open out of their infeasible hopes, and I am empty with the realisation that these things have not happened yet.
At least for now.
This wind, it is cold, yet warm, it arrives from a controversial day. But this wind is nothing, something profoundly like nothing.
Where do I stand? How do I fight? How do I place my legs, how do I arrange my shield? My weapon, my voice? Are you listening? Can you pack away your destructive sentiments and listen? I need to know what side of the bridge I am to stay at.
I do need to know.
There’s an eye. A body. An arm. A voice. A throat. An organ. A personal definition that needs to know where to stand. That needs to know how to fit into this cold, stoic narrative.
You need to send me a response soon, I can fight without course, burning through every of your structures, but I do not know the extent this strength will carry me, but fight I shall.
I’d like to hold a boy’s hand on Valentine’s day, without question.
I anticipate a response soon.
All things, severing, and unallowing.