To Christien

You fell through the sky Hitting cement To break into a new dimension Where you can fly, And now your body And spirit exist In different planes. The chicken and the egg, Now the shell has a different purpose. It seems as though Everyone is asking Or even just wondering Silently pondering The incessant dubious question: "Why?". Sometimes it's a vowel And sometimes closure. You're not here to answer, And really it's none of our business. 'Cause truth is, if you were a ship With no sailors, We'd have enough sense To understand why You wouldn't set sail. Truth is, I'm human too, Filled to the brim With material for interrogation Not for you, For the ocean. Why push ships? I have no questions, Because rest in questioning Is not rest in peace. We ask how a body jumps to its demise. I'm asking, "Who pushed you?" Not because these hands are tangible, They have not skin nor bones nor muscles. They are ever shifting and changing upon recognition. They have not fingerprints nor blood. They came not from the womb But the wind. My dear friend, You are merely Another one of us Lost at sea. Lost to the waves, Winds, And currents Of a violent and anti-queer culture. My question is not Whether or not you Called a hotline. My question is "How many hotlines does it take to dismantle a system designed to create death?" We cannot all be salmon. We cannot shame those who are naturally More vulnerable to the salted or fresh Environments we are consumed by. My questions are not for you, My dear friend, Because resting in questioning Is not resting in peace.