Decorum

I was born with a throat for fire,

not silence.

They told me to shrink,

to wear softer colors,

to love in secret

and call it survival.

But I have kissed men in the daylight,

held hands in the South,

chose defiance over decorum,

and buried friends beneath flags

that should have crowned them kings.

I have been an outlaw, heretic,

the glitter in a clenched fist.

Bound by scripture and rope,

a mouth and a heart that will pray,

yet never for forgiveness I do not owe.

The world will try to shape you down

to something it can swallow —

let them choke.

I do not owe my quiet to the comfort of cowards.

Ink it where your pulse speaks loudest.

I was not built for smallness.

And neither were you.