No one will write for us. Our voices are rarely heard but always obscured. Our flesh is a canvass, a chalkboard, where the powered and privilege scribble their interpretations of us and erase our truths. We are not made to be visible, but instead to be the black and brown background for whiteness, normalcy and power to stand unblemished. So we must write for ourselves, for each other, for survival, for the chance to live, so that our hearts might meet our minds and flesh and love each other into wholeness. This is not the calling of a writer. It is not the duty of an activist. It is not the responsibility of the conscious. It is the guide to freedom. It is the road map to self and community love. It is the ethic of the humanist. It is our connection to us. That is what it is. Take up your pen. Raise your voice. Announce your flesh. Affirm your desires. Be naked, unabashedly so and live, so that we might love. There is no freedom in the darkness, only cool prisons of existence.
