I’m pressing the barrel 

of a gun 

to the temple 

of the face in the mirror 

and shattering the fragility 

that has so often

slept 

in my bed. 

 

I’m pressing the barrel 

of a gun 

to the temple 

of the face in the mirror 

and waking up to the notion 

that freedom 

is not situated where we stand. 

 

We will have to run, 

hard and fast. 

We will have to 

stand, 

shoulder to shoulder 

with an enemy, 

to whom 

our defeat 

is familiar.

 

Let ink drip 

from my fingertips 

like blood.

Let me speak 

the words 

no one will say

before crowds, 

before amphitheaters. 

 

And let us hold hands with

the choices

we have made. 

Let us hold hands

beneath the burdens

we have carried. 

Let us set down

our guns

and face the flickering reflection

of who we are. 

 

Let us face, 

with temerity, 

the memory of who

we are supposed to be. 

 

Not this.