Trump’s America Will Not Win

 

Lord, let it be me. Let me be a sponge for their hate. Let my irreverently queer, patriarchy-bashing, black-lives-adoring art draw their eye and draw their pathetic fear from the hateful shadows of this country.

And when they lash out with their words, let it be at me. When they lash out with their fists, let it be at me. When their fear consumes what it cannot recognize, let it eat me whole. When their hate corrupts that with which it cannot empathize, let it rot me to my insides.

Keep their hunting eyes on me, Lord, and in my place let a queer child born to this madness stay safe. Let her beat the odds and live freely. Let her find compassion, tolerance, and warmth in this world. Allow her a direct line to ancient, maternal wisdom. Show her the power of diversity and the magic in empathy. Grow her into a tsunami.

And when she’s ready, elect her motherfucking president. Let her find unimaginably pure love in the arms of a dark-skinned, immigrant, same-sex partner. Put them in the Whitehouse. Change the stagnant face of this nation.

Help her win the war now that we’ve lost the battle.

Let it be me, alongside others like me, who shield our bright future from those who would see it dimmed.

We still may live long enough to see it shine.