Do not tell me,

it's only four years.

Yes,

Love's

soft feathers

will beat

with power,

spiraling

sharp bullets

off course,

and

yes

my chest

burns

with violent

stories,

Hate's

back pocket

tactics,

orange

flames that lick

starlight

and youth.

Do not tell me

it's only four years.

How many people

live

alone,

on streets,

under forests,

in hell boxes

without heat

holding knowledge,

mom

never

loved me,

dad taught

beating

not

hugging,

guardian

turned

curse.

Do not tell me

it's only four years.

How many people

look

in their cracked

mirrors

and see

the monster

everyone mocks?

How many people

can't see

colorful

skin

as

a

work

of

stunning

art?

Even with change,

when blue power

rises again

and many breathe

a little easier,

the pavements will

persist,

weeping

red

when

Hate

stomps

on

Love's feathers

again, again,

again,

breaking delicate

flight.

And yet,

as I weep

through four years,

in the light of

dying stars,

I will

raise my face

with grit

and dried blood,

spreading

my broken wings,

screaming

the pain

of the disabled

and

ancestors,

of women,

and queers,

of children,

and communities,

laying

my tender

body

of Love

over your

violence,

until,

silence

shrouds

us,

and

we

breathe

in

and

we

breathe

out

together.