There are very few things about myself that I take pride in
But at 26 years old, I can say I take pride in the fact that I’ve never gotten into a fist fight.
I mean aside from the lack of appeal in the concept of consenting to another person damaging my face, it all just seems so kerbobbled.
It’s also because I think, I may, probably, possibly, definitely lose.
However, Theres always an exception. And in my case, two.
I know when it comes down to a fight for my siblings, I will not lose.
My brother, more gold than that bridge spanning across the San Francisco Bay, I’ve found my god and those promised pearly gates through the beam in his eyes.
My sister, nothing less than a generator of majesty and the receptacle of my divinity’s origin, She is the source of light my destiny clings to.
Both, an embodied compilation of so many of my victories, I have yet lost a fight when it comes to them.
I fought for our sanctuary to remain a home even after the invasion and crumbled into a warzone.
I fought for innocence to remain the outfit we could still wear because trauma didn’t quite suit us yet.
For our skin to remain as sacred as an impromptu roast session or a 3-man bedroom party.
For arguments to remain as simplistic as who hid the TV remote when everything around us was out of control.
For hugs to hold us together while we fell apart.
For laughter to be the portal that returned us bring us back to each other on the days we didn’t know who to blame or to hate or where to start.
I fought against the lonely that lingered in the shadows of a 3am, for it to never distort us into believing a 6am sun would never rise in us again.
My siblings are the breath and life to every one of my words that became a corpse muted by the midnight valley known as myself.
I’m 30 now and while the list of things I take pride in has expanded exponentially, so has my understanding in the realization that I’ve actually spent my whole life fighting.
Its been 509 days since my sibilings and I have been apart and lately it seems I’m only fighting for my desire to keep fighting.
My mournings feel like eternities of disbelief.
My daze feel like seas of grief.
My knights feel armored with defeat
And yet,
Time reminds me that fighting is revolutionary.
It pays homage to our ancestors who fought for us before and preserves our legacy for those who are sure to come after.
If we listen close enough, we can hear the wind whisper that it’s almost 6am and we’re so close to rising again.