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I knew it was bad
when you didn’t even have to say it,
when I saw it in your eyes,
when I knew it in the way you folded your arms
and turned away when I spoke.

Democracy isn’t a mother
who shields you from the storm,
it’s the ghost of a father
who leaves when the lights flicker
and promises turn to dust
in his palms.

When I was younger 

Not yet a teenager 

I was

Unprepared and fragile

I had no armor

No ammunition

And yet I was put into

A battle

Me against

Every single person 

Two doors, both locked, neither mine.
Two names, one I gave up.
Two voices, both demanding I choose.
A home is a shelter. A home is a question.

I was born in a city.  Not a real city, just one of those urban approximations which flicker across the map for a minute, briefly important, and then fade.  My city was ‘briefly important’ for its steel.  We were one of th

There’s this song,

Slipping Through My Fingers.

By ABBA. From Mamma Mia!

That's how I see it.

Our rights.

“I try to capture every minute.”