Tucking my dress inside my pants for anonymity, and bringing it out,
unfurled like a flag. I grab the cord connected to the megaphone.
Channeling the movement, I am a mouthpiece and a medium, spouting the message.
A girl, a symbol. I stand for rightful indignation, leftist fury, raising my voice, stepping forward
at the front of the broken floodgates. Trans, a leader, a member, outstretched.
I want to live my life like I’m an allegory, black and red.
I want to be allowed to be a person, in crisis, part of a struggle in the heart
of a poisoned body that takes, takes, takes, enshittifies, represses, surveils,
that only opens one eye when the white bodies start to drop, the other forever asleep.
I am mad. I will not stand by and watch. I am climbing to the top of the pole,
flying the colors with pride, insisting. I will be heard and there will be a reaction.
The movement propels me over the edge, past taboo. I can look back
but the shaft of salt is there either way. I am coming to a climax.
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