It isn’t fair
It isn’t it fair that I can sit here
in this warm house
on this warm Autumn night
in this warm city
Alone, but always with the warmth of friends
alone, but blessedly aware that I am not
alone here, but not unheard
alone here, but not unseen
and there they are
cold
slain by hate
by blindness
and here I am
with only words to offer
and regret
and fury
It isn’t fair
that anyone should
believe that they are
not touched by the
tragedies occurring
so often we cannot
catch our horrified breaths
can barely comprehend
the moment when the
rope is in their hands
the gun is held to their heads
the pills are swallowed
the leap is taken
in a chase for peace
for some respite from
the torment of their
peers or their families
or those in this world
who wish they wouldn’t exist
there are no metaphors for this
there are no similes that can
equivocate articulate
the glaring realities
of boys and men
and girls and women
and those who defy all
classification
those who must
be afraid of their love
who must be wary of harassment
who must be ready to combat judgment
to say it bluntly,
these words seem hollow
here
in a warm house
in a warm autumn
in a warm city
in a world
where children die
the queer ones
the ones caught in floods
and earthquakes
and wars
and droughts
and famines
but the words
they will help
carry me somewhere
to that tomorrow
sitting in the distance
peaceful and warm
waiting for us
where the lost
who impatiently left us
are waiting.
narinda heng 