Honestly, I’m just hurt. The kind of hurt gives no answer when asked, “Where does it hurt?” Black. Gay. There isn’t space out there. I can barely hold space for myself in here. What even is my existence if not steeped in racism & homophobia, intercepting all of life’s perks?

With so many interceptions, it doesn’t surprise me that so many keep hands in their pockets. At some point, you stop reaching.

I’m starting to understand why we hope the dead can “rest in peace” because I don’t know if rest comes to the living. Though exhaustion is prevalent.

This isn’t throwing in the towel. It’s just a moment of, “Wow. Struggle really isn’t a stranger. Your whole being is rooted in fighting for the right to exist. Your parts fight for validation daily. You must be tired.” But the fight continues. Trust me. In art. In work. In life.