It turns out, they’re afraid

of what lurks in the notebooks

of queer girls in small towns,

of the voices they’ve tried to muffle.

It turns out, there’s power

in the dreams and words

crafted by brown hands,

ideas that dance on kinky curls

or linger under chiffon head scarves.

It turns out, they’re afraid

of boys who dare to feel,

soft beating hearts, opening,

untouched by toxicity,

spilling themselves on empty pages.

It turns out, our power

leaves them shaking with fear,

the knowledge, that our words alone

could rip the world open

and swallow them whole.