After the Parade

Off comes the glitter,

The lashes can stay.

All other traces wiped away.

Streets are cleaned of cans,

Of confetti,

Of balloons,

Of

Anything

Suggesting

We

Were

There

At

All.

Tell me, do you think they wish we were as easy to sweep away?

This is not my world

This is theirs

And there is no place for me in it.

No room for my loudness.

My rage.

My laugh.

Permitted to exist

But not to take up space

Not to be loud

Or proud

Unless it is on their terms.

I’m valid only when they say,

But tell me, how can I exist without a trace?

Tell me why should I celebrate

What do I have to cheer about?

No

Really

Please

Tell me.

I'll wait.

So, what happens after the parade?

I think of tomorrow’s family meal

And the way I will respond,

So when you ask me how I spent my weekend

My answer does not start a war.

For my place is not in this world.

The pride for me does not exist within these walls.

Your love for me is conditional.

So how can you ask me about my place in this world?

When for eleven months a year my answers are not heard.

You’ve no pride for me at all.

The streets are empty,

Gutters lined with

Rubbish rather than confetti

The equilibrium restored

The rainbows folded up

And yet I remain.

Runaway pieces of glitter showing up

In my hair,

My bed,

My clothes.

For weeks they pop up,

The only indication

The only mark signifying I was there at all.

So how can I be mad at you questioning my place in this world?

When I only take it one day a year.

Perhaps I’ve no pride in me at all.