"but that person in purple— when i see them, i will know that that they don’t want me to die. they don’t want my family to die. they don’t consider me less than because of an integral part of my person.
which, i mean, FUCK. it fucking sucks that i can’t automatically assume that about everyone (which is, of course, why the fight obviously does not end at well-chosen lilac accessories), but i can’t. i obviously can’t, because there are clearly people out there who would harass and hurt me and mine until we see no option but dying, and that will be their intent. i’ve been wildly out for about seven years, but every time i tell a new person, i have a flicker of fear. every time i see someone glance swiftly toward the rainbows that are splattered across my backpack, my fists tighten a bit. being queer is a long road of constantly defending who you are to other people. it is tiring. i’m only nineteen, and i’ve been shitfuck lucky when it comes to acceptance or at least tolerance, and i am exhausted by it. i am exhausted. i am parched.
and today, when i see that purple person… i won’t care if you think it’s inane, it’s going to be a splash of water on my tongue. i am going to feel that tiny expression of love, and i am going to feel safer. i am going to feel less alone, more supported, just… better. that person wants me to live. they are mourning members of my family, they are showing support for us, they want me to live.
if this fucking sweatervest can do that for just one person, i think there’s something to be said for the cause."
via librarianpirate
(via sexartandpolitics)
(Source: nuditea, via sexartandpolitics)
