Today, I do not write to be delicate.
Today, I write to move mountains,
with calloused hands on the backs of hurricanes,
I am an immovable object and an unstoppable force.
There are words swelling,
like torrential rain, in my chest,
and when they spill from my mouth,
I will cover the world in water.
This is not a poem for old souls.
This is a poem for blood that runs hot and red—
Nationalism to the beating muscle in your chest
calling allegiance to your body.
Others can write to Love and Infinity.
tonight I am writing to bleed.