I DON’T KNOW HOW TO START A REVOLUTION so I told my friends to get home safe, and like the stray dogs I see whenever I leave the county, we take our lessons with McDonalds meals and stranger worship. Oh, if only I could be my own house mouse and termite, and stop myself without even trying. Instead, I sit here and count the pennies until the bus comes. One night I had a dream that I learned how to fly but never knew where I was going. I don’t think I could ever have the city for myself. I DON’T KNOW HOW TO START A REVOLUTION. Maybe I should ask my therapist; how to split an orange in half without thinking about the knife. I need to figure out if I’m a shooter or a butcher. I’m sanitized in all the wrong places. I DON’T KNOW HOW TO START A REVOLUTION, I scream until someone listens. No one can hear me over the sirens. The easiest thing to write is a secret, and the easiest way to tip your waiter is not to know them at all. Two dollars in the jar, I keep wondering if this is right to cry about, until I’m locked inside the freezer. I DON’T KNOW HOW TO START A REVOLUTION. I spit onto a teenage fascist, I spit inside my high school bully. I DON’T KNOW HOW TO START A REVOLUTION. I’m running out of ways to make a brown trans person smile. I DON’T KNOW HOW TO START A REVOLUTION. My mother comes from one and my family still doesn’t know how to finish me. I DON’T KNOW HOW TO BE REVOLUTION. And like I imagine God said, when he was first believed, I wish I could get away with what I am.
