Always looking for an exit,it climbs up my arms,raising my fists againstthe weight of the shackles,continues through my fingersand grabs writing flags. Always looking for an exit,it goes down to my kneesand makes me stand up,it comes up to my neckand makes me stare into their eyes.                       Always looking for an exit,like a torch that dries the tears,giving birth to a voiceso many times chewed,so many times silenced by fury. It is the rage.                                                 And if you close your mouthso that it doesn't come out,it breaks your tongue. It burst at the tips of the fingersthat have ridiculed us,from the hand of fearthat rises to hit usand run away among their laughter. We have been the insults,the scapegoats,the ritual of initiationin which condemnation separated themfrom being pariahs,the piece that didn't fitinto their self-destructive machinery. We've been toldit was our fault for beingalways looking for a exitinstead of living by killing usaccording to tradition,for not using their chainsas a medal of acceptance. Because everythingseemed to run smoothly,except us,and the whole worldnodded al once. I didn't know you,but you gave me backthe rage that I turned into an armour,to the deepest part of my insides. That ball of noise made me shakemy knuckles and eyelids again,always looking for an exit,a damn exit that destroys this society,because society wants to destroy us. I didn't know you,and now I can't. This is my rage.A rage that burns the streetsin your honor,and in the honor of so many broken storiesthat live inside us,a rage capable of tearing downthe walls that separate usfrom our lives,a rage like the wings of a butterfly, that is always rebornlooking for an exitto the open air of your breath, towards a sky of freedomin which to fly.  Dedicated to the memory ofAlan, Ekai, Thalia, Leelahand a painfully long list. Trans lives matter.