I am told I am not enough...

I hold membership to a group of people who are often told that...

We are not mother's color, not father's...

Not man's form, not woman's...

But we are not nothing.

We are the children who can not play nice with others as we see no point in participating in the game of throwing stones.

That is not to say we didn't hold the cool pebbles in our palms and ponder what'd feel like to let them loose and see our rage manifested in another's pain.

In the end we didn't see much of a point in being so petty.

But those urges bite me;

Holding me in their jaws, seeking not to break bone, but punish me with their presence.

I have screamed the sun out of the sky trying to dispute my captor.

Cried rivers that brought prosperity to my parched disciples.

 

The only way for me to beat  the beast is to give in to myself...

For there was a time when I came too close to being too far from myself.

 

With writing, I draw out the map of my mind, the map with which I envision my victory.

Scrawling scripture on my palms and transcribing them to paper.

 

It is with blood, soul, and silence that I write.

 

I spill myself into the world in the barest way possible,

through naked words left in empty air.

 

I am enough!

We are enough!

I am the scribe to the revolution I hold for those who wish to be "I".

 

And writing, writing is my form of rebellion.