Fallen idols on the ground, all around me, fragments of a childhood where I claimed I could look up to no one because my platform shoes made me taller than the rest.
Kohl setting into my wrinkles, my glitter long since faded, my wigs still tangled up in my past.
Buy a new story from the corner store, a replacement for the one I threw away.
I never realized that your windows could open so far, and for the first time I see you watching me without your screen. My blinds remain closed even when I see you walk out your front door and cross the street, heading my way.
All your protestsers are paid for, bought and sold just like the rest. Career protagonists, why don\’t you call them what they are? Counterculture lobbyists, living on our fair trade, free range, organically raised and praised, union wage dimes.
The past few years spent resisting my own instincts and genetics, and for what? To speak for those without voices who cannot be heard — but what makes us so special that we are the only ones who can hear them? To listen to one is not to listen to them all. Some people would rather suffer than be \”saved\” by you.
