goddamn it hurt to write this. i was lucky enough to grow up with parents who accepted me for who i am, but i know many don't have the same privilege. i have seen how those who are taught to hate do so with blind eyes and deaf ears. it's horrifying and sad. i have seen how they hurt and how they hurt others. on social media, comment sections are filled by those who were brought up in these hateful environments, brought up to hate those who are "different". i wrote this for every queer person who hasn't been treated with the love they deserve.
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resting within hate there is reason,
and without reason it is something darker,
something warped and foolish
like a funhouse mirror,
distortion and a chosen deafness and—
"child, let me tell you what is sinful. let me tell you of the unnatural."
hate is a bloodied flower, born of battle,
righteous in its defiance to love,
but it is first a seed smaller than a fingernail
before it breaks through the soil,
and one can then decide if its deadly nightshade petals of fury
are worth the labor, worth the precious water
that could be spent on the wilting, faded sunflowers and the roses that have forgotten how to unfurl their soft faces to the sun.
hate should not be planted, fully grown with roots deep and strong enough to replace the bones of a child.
how would they know the cost when they have not yet seen how the garden blooms without this weed?
how if one young daisy droops, the rest feel its pain?
how love can fill voids and even in silence is heard?
they do not know how hate can confine, how it is solitary and lifeless and—
"child, let me tell you of those who are less. let me tell you of those who are other."
when will mothers and fathers learn
that the echoes of the past do not need to be carried on their tongues?
when will they learn that words can kill,
and there's blood on their hands,
blood of strangers and blood of kin?
no holy water can wash away this horror, this reality that cannot be ignored, and the screams are ugly and guttural, scraping and rusted
it claws against the walls
unleashed and raw—
we riot. we always do.
mothers and fathers,
when you tell your child to look out the window to see all the monsters,
they see their reflection in the glass,
wide eyes and little hands and innocence
and they hear,
"child, let me tell you that you are of the devil. let me tell you that you do not belong."
YOU ARE READING
for the tarnished hearts
Poetrypoetry for the hearts tarnished by love or the sudden death of it. for the hearts that find a soft lullaby in the pages when raw hope is not enough to put the worries to sleep. for the hearts that bleed ink to paint the chalky roses of life red with...
