by Olive Elzinga
We are normal.
We are the princes prancing,
With velvet purple tails and green carnations pinned to our hearts.
gifting violets, and glances in place of words.
We are the living, the artists, the inventors, the poets, the scholars, we are the highly regarded while the sun is up and the lights are off.
Flip the switch.
Listen to the rumors.
Wait for dark and we become their gutter rats,
Their freak show to stare at,
And at night they find us disgustingly intriguing,
But by day we are forgotten, misplaced, shoved away into shadowed alleys, tucked away unless it’s play time for them to enjoy us as they please,
And we become those labelled as grossly indecent.
So, we are the scoundrels, the dirty, the angels fallen from grace into the graves they had us dig for ourselves, but we still never lost our feel for a dance.
We are the ones punished and left for dead.
And though some have perished, we have left behind a legacy that means we can never die out.
Through the sewers they pushed us under we will crawl, we will weave, until fingers stop pointing us out,
And they start snapping in support,
We listened to the jeers they forced down our throats as they labeled us queens as an insult,
But we took their words and built paper crowns out of it, wearing the jewels on the heads of
diamonds in the rough.
Now we listen to the cheers until the protests are drowned out.
And as we go past surviving,
Look at my crown,
And try to dethrone me.
I dare you.