And we were Banksy on an overpass in New Orleans spray-painting porch lights on the hurricane. We were welcome mats for the un-forgiven. We never sold our windpipes to make a living. We were the letters sent to the wrong address, but opened anyway. We opened anyway.

This is my heartbeat like yours, it is a hatchet It can build a house or tear one down.

My mouth is a fire escape. The words coming out don’t care that they are naked. There is something burning in there.

We're boxed in and labeled before we're ever able to speak who we believe we are or who we dream we'll become.

I know you think this world is too dark to even dream in color, but I’ve seen flowers bloom at midnight. I’ve seen kites fly in gray skies and they were real close to looking like the sunrise, and sometime it takes the most wounded wings the most broken things to notice how strong the breeze is, how precious the flight.

Everyone’s chest is a living room wall with awkwardly placed photographs hiding fist-shaped holes.

Yes, I like girls; Yes, I like boys; I like boys who like boys; I like girls who wear toys and girls who don't; I like girls who don't call themselves girls; Crew cuts or curls or that really bad hair phase in between.