I don’t have to be called a name to feel the sting of hate. It’s in the flow of society. It’s how I feel moving through a space. Space, without gravity. No foothold or anything else to anchor onto. Just the knowing.
Because it’s in the air. I, we, breathe it.
There are more often no names or obvious gestures of being discarded. I hate that way I feel, so unsettled without a way to touch or point at it. That’s it, don’t you see? I scream in my mind, wanting to yell to bystanders who aren’t innocent in their denial. They scoff with, “Oh, you’re just being,” or “Oh, everything’s not about that.” For some, it is though. So then the translucence of it is what makes me then question it. Question myself rather.
And then I pull myself back, toes touching ground, heart reconnecting with soul. This soul that allows intuition to reverberate back into my body, confirming what is real, believing it, if only within myself. To know, to realize this, is what I need to remain grounded, to remain safe, mind and body.
