I felt trapped.

Even next to my lovely wife, we both felt alone, stuck in our own heads.

I crawled out of bed, cold, bundled, and bruised, drained of cheer.

I walked the streets, the day after, observing their faces.

A parent nervously pushing a stroller, the queer couple talking rapidly, a shopper in a sweatshirt with an empty gaze.

It's post election and we are shocked, stricken, and playing dead in pure daylight.

Our thoughts are for Kamala as she called a rapist to say, "You won."

We watched at a distance, floating in horror as the male body once again claimed space and authority.

When will the hunt end?

We are the prey with lion jaws wrapped around our necks.

We might yet live beyond these teeth if only we vacate the first home of our bodies.

If only we leave.

Too much you say? Too triggering? Unfair?

Yes, Yes, Yes.

I can no longer sit in the shadows with ruinous words tangling in my mouth, tip-toeing because your internal garden of privilege is delicate to harsh weather.

I can no longer wait to be devoured by predators whose greatest flaw is a lack of self-love.

How to continue?

How to keep facing the hordes of hate?

With spindly exhausted legs, with raised faces, with crawling.

We will push through broken teeth and weep over colonized lands.

We will feel unnamed fears, we will release brittle hate, and we will step over violence like it is poison ivy.

We will pound through songs of sharp grief, a herd of protective singing people; our name, the lion's bane.

And one day, with out best heart, and a clear path, we will cage these predators, and wait for their humanity to return.