panic attacks during pride. a new genre, an archival feeling. struggling to stay afloat alongside the floats. most lonely at parties. their glee, our grief. being harassed during pride month has an extra kind of sting to it. it’s not just adding insult to injury, it is also adding injury to insult. it is the injury as insult and the insult as injury. it is a movement unconcerned with our movement from point A to B. i look up + see so many rainbow flags. i look across + see so many people laughing at me. they keep talking about progress + i am just trying to get to the next building without being assaulted. rather: i am trying to get through the building without being assaulted. rather: i am trying to use the bathroom without being assaulted. every time i go outside i feel hunted. so hunted that the chase, it continues on the inside. my blood races. my chest, shivers. where can we rest? what is rest? the impact that this has on my body/mind is tremendous + soul/tissue/joint/disc/tendon/bone/dream crushing. it’s hard not to feel defeated by the daily ness of it all. how accustomed i have become to the pain. but that is their world & we are creating a different one. it’s not quite our own yet, but we have dreams here. we live in dreams, from dreams, with dreams. there is always simultaneity. multiple stories. and all of them are true. and all of them are not. today i choose to also tell the one of my hairy belly being embraced the sun. the one of my smile emerging from yet another sleepless night — like that stubborn sun, how it comes back somehow. the one where i walk outside in this city of unrequited love & ask it to love me back. the impossibility of that. the impossibility of this. the impossibility of me. we the possible impossible. the story of we — the possible impossible.
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