The Word of the Loved

When they come for us, it isn’t gentle.
It isn’t careful nor soft—
Perhaps because they know that the world already thinks it can break us.
But they know: we aren’t so easily pried open.

They stand over us,
Smoke pouring from their lips,
Fire emblazoned in their chests—
Emanating a gospel different from the ones I hear in school assemblies and religion class.

When they come for us, it is kind,
It is reverence,
It is understanding.
It is the chorus, of people like me, of people like us,
And they say: “stand up. Be loud. Don’t apologise, for who could say sorry for being born when
it was out of our own hands? We do what we can with this lot life gives us. For now:
Stand up.
Be loud.
Don’t apologise.”

They don’t give me a weapon because my existence is enough to hurt,
According to the words written in headlines,
My—our—entire existence a threat enough.
But they give a hand: to help up on weakened legs.
We are not breakable but the world has done a number on us, on me.
Together,
We stand,
We are loud,
We never apologise.