All the time I’m told that I can be fixed, that I’m making a choice, that I’m a spawn of the devil, that I am evil, that I will burn in hell, that I shouldn’t have my rights, that I need to suffer, that I should be fine with others inflicting suffering upon me, that I should just go ahead and hang myself like the rest of my kind does. But I so much as try and fight back, so much as dare to say something in response to the burning hatred I receive, if I have the audacity to try and thrive past the knives and bullets they send my way, if am am to even exist or breathe in a way that they don’t like, they absolutely lose their minds, having a complete breakdown, like a toddler throwing a tyrannical fit of rage at the unfairness of their parent’s actions, claiming that they are the ones who are really being oppressed, that in the end, they’re the true victims; they claim that they need a cast for their stubbed toe, while we are yet to receive a bandage for our broken bones; they proclaim from the top of their gold pile that they are financially devastated down to the poor town of peasants and farmers below; they dick-ride a glass cannon that they use to fire down upon the suffering folk who they deem to be wrong and unworthy of fair treatment, but you make any contact with them, the cannon explodes in a volley of glass shards in every direction, and they stand in the center of the ashen battlefield, complaining about their scratches to the world, using it as their excuse for why they did all the things that they did, while we must tend to our gashes and help bury the dead without a respectful grave.
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