On Love and Activism

Poetry of Bledvar Albekell

Illustration by Mina Tolu

I, The Activist, Not I

Clouds parted, gliding gently far
The sun, smiling warmly,
Welcoming the heart
For Pride, our Pride. Be we straight, homo, a, pansexual, transgender.

Three.

Three was the time, and three were the executive.
Calling at half the hour, voices full of sympathy.
Sweet was the fanfare of the beatboxes playing.
Voices cheering, drunken and joyful.

Love thy community
Deliver rainbows up for the sky
Send them down into the sea.
Give to all except for…

Who? What? HE!

Guilt turned to shame, turmoil poured out as tears.
The battle for kings and queens was transparent and openly fought though lips.
For representation, not fame. Selfishly, blindly.

Materiality scattered everywhere. Manual tech: arm, smile, selfie, frown.
Gossip, inspirational messages. Endless banter.
For Pride, our Pride?

Energy drained, tired.

Tired. Tired of playing the game.
Isn’t it a crying shame?
When dreams are casted by an actor, seeking toxic bane or a blade to bring comfort.
Drinking does not help. Smoking, drugs nor sex can relieve the pain in the mind.

And as I stand in front of you clay men on this night
What activist am I, say I?
Why should I fight for you?
Why fight you not for me?

No, not We Are. I Am.