we emerge like we own this place. because we do. indenial of your denial, feeling the air shift as we enter.
yeah, we here. pink hair, face piercings, pastels,floral prints, gap-toothed smiles, combat boots. we polish the moon
on our fingernails. we them bois our mothers didn’t knowto warn us about. we them grrls glistening bold color and gilded cheekbone.
and we hate seeing this place. so monochrome, so stale,so stagnant. what happened to the corner store where
we danced our childhood and tugged at elders’tired hems, begging for sweets? this place has left us.
let us call up its ghosts, fill it with rebel yells. start a brand new fuss.or don’t. we didn’t come here for your permission
anyway. we young with old bones. can feel all the erased partsunderneath your hood inspired art hanging on your walls like we not
still right here. yeah. we here to stomp through your artisanal cafes andwhen you call the pigs, we’ll block your lanes. make you uncomfortable then
make you feel more like yourself than you ever thought possible.you ought to fix your mouths to thank us for the inconvenience.
Che Justus is a black southern radical trans writer from Birmingham, AL. Their work has previously appeared in Outside the XY: Queer Black and Brown Masculinity. Follow their future projects via Twitter @chejustus.