when they say you don’t exist

take a moment to taste your tears. 
the salt is real, let it ground you. then,
feel the skin of your miraculous body, 
the strength in each movement, as you
refuse to be stilled. or stifled. refuse
to let your joy be stolen. catch
your reflection and revel in the beauty
of your own laughing face.

hold yourself tight. feel
your beating heart. breathe, then 
howl. or shout. 
in anguish or ecstasy, make it loud.
speak your own name.
when words fail you, sing
or hum, expand with each vibration
as you demand to be heard.

stand in your truth.
sink roots into it deep, then
blossom. take up space
with your big, bright, sun-soaking
blooms. make your ancestors proud.
build legacies of queer love.
plant guerrilla gardens of
unrepentant trans joy.

make time for lament,
time for rage and dissent. then,
make art. dabble in magic.
practice solidarity. display
public affection. dance and
disobey. notice how your power moves
and own it. wield it. make them
look you in the eye.

don’t give ears to their lies.
trust your own heart, then
make a crown of daisies, 
radiant and bursting. defy them
by standing tall and regal, 
real. let the wind be your witness 
as it kisses your perfect face, which is 
undeniable.

About the author

Jamez Terry is a queer and trans poet, novelist, zinester, parent, chaplain, and rabblerouser.  His poetry has been spit from stages across North America.  His debut novel, See You in the Mail, is forthcoming from Generous Press.  Jamez lives in Alaska with his partner, two kids, and many fishes.

Photo by Kristine Cinate on Unsplash.