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Where Light Refuses to Bow
We never asked to be different.
We only wanted to walk
without folding our souls into apology.
To laugh
without someone measuring the pitch of our voices
and deciding if it was a boy or a girl.
To hold a hand
without scanning the street
like love was a dealer, and we, the addicted.
Some greet your heart like a stray:
smiling,
until it dares too close.
Then they kick.
But we didn’t break.
We stitched dignity from bruises,
wrote our names on fogged mirrors
with trembling fingers,
until one morning,
we saw those names
and called them sacred.
Our skin holds the slurs.
Our spines recall nights slept upright,
alert,
prey even in dreams.
We wear color like scars turned holy.
We wear love like scripture.
We tilt our heads
not in shame,
but toward heaven,
carrying the broken pieces
we refused to discard.
We don’t march for eyes.
We march
because we still breathe.
Because someone, somewhere,
needs proof
they can survive
the closet,
the blade,
the therapy,
the silence that burns like acid.
This is not celebration.
This is resurrection.
We carry the ghosts:
those starved of belonging.
We whisper their names like spells
to keep the dark at bay,
to call that safety.
PRIDE
is no costume.
It’s the raw, unglamorous act
of refusing
to hate your reflection.
And if that’s sin,
let us sin
Fiercely.
Softly.
Without apology.
Until the sky
learns
our name.
Copyright ©
Florin Lacatus
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