Michael Moore is intolerably smug right now, and I call a meeting.
Here’s my flair, and this has been me expressing *myself.*
For once in my white life, “making it personal” is not about seeking personal satisfaction. That’s not easy for me.
Your papa and I comprise your whole world. Yet, if we were to disappear, you wouldn’t, within a year or so, even remember us.
Hate terrifies. But hate has no heart, and is therefore a dead thing. I won’t let a dead thing silence, muffle, or distort my voice anymore.
Because an apparently sober stranger recently told me I have stress in my eyes. Can you see it?