First

I remember writing a story based off this “poem” at…nineteen? Maybe. When my Ex and I were first starting to sniff each other out.

“First they came for the Communists
And I did not speak out
Because I was not a Communist
Then they came for the Socialists
And I did not speak out
Because I was not a Socialist
Then they came for the trade unionists
And I did not speak out
Because I was not a trade unionist
Then they came for the Jews
And I did not speak out
Because I was not a Jew
Then they came for me
And there was no one left
To speak out for me.”

It’s lost. The thing I wrote.

And I never thought something I’d written would come back to haunt me.

Heh.

I am a Fool.

First time I’d ever written like my life was depending upon it. A story about someone who thought they’d had a good life but then it got upended when then she..me..I…got upended and realized that what I wanted wasn’t what I was was taught to be.

Wrote about the feeling of being trapped in wire and concrete, just because of who I am. Because in the mid-late Eighties? What I was. And what I wantetd?

Still forbidden to most except those who could see the ultimate truth.

Love. Is. Love.

I am A Lesbian.

Black Triangle and all.

And a coward. Because what’s happening now brings me back to that story, that I wrote in blue ink on white paper bound in a notebook.

The one where I die in the end for who I am.

*snerk*

Funny thing about age.

I am blindingly terrified.

But.

I would like to think thatI’ll go down fighting.

We’ll see.

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Thoughts?

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