The view of a golden age in my deathbed before a confession to all which I’ve had sacrificed my life to please they whisper in my ear; “But this was never our problem.”
There are reasons WHY we are not like anybody else and we should NOT be treated as such.
Prude in her heart she got no nude.
Pray pretend until the end.
New paintings some time.
Of all the books in the world, there are many that I will not read; a few that I like, a little that I keep, and three that I burn.
In this world you don’t need to be born queer, a woman, nor a man to go out there and get yourself killed when only the action of breathing air alone feels like a crime.
The look on passersby and every stranger down the street wondering why am I still doing time in here.
Stamped in our face,
Stained in our blood,
Shined in our soul,
Can’t get rid of us.
I don’t care who you think you are but all I’d hoped for Christmas was to live up past a nice vaginal infection expérience shipped down there.