Do not tell me, it's only four years.

Yes, Love's soft feathers will beat with power, spiraling sharp bullets off course, and yes my chest burns with violent stories, Hate's back pocket tactics, orange flames that lick starlight and youth.

Do not tell me it's only four years.

How many people live alone, on streets, under forests, in hell boxes without heat holding knowledge, mom never loved me, dad taught beating not hugging, guardian turned curse.

Do not tell me it's only four years.

How many people look in their cracked mirrors and see the monster everyone mocks?

How many people can't see colorful skin as a work of stunning art?

Even with change, when blue power rises again and many breathe a little easier, the pavements will persist, weeping red when Hate stomps on Love's feathers again, again, again, breaking delicate flight.

And yet, as I weep through four years, in the light of dying stars, I will raise my face with grit and dried blood, spreading my broken wings, screaming the pain of the disabled and ancestors, of women, and queers, of children, and communities, laying my tender body of Love over your violence, until, silence shrouds us, and we breathe in and we breathe out together.