i do not practice my poems, i barely even write them. half-baked lyrics and notes scribbled in between bites of quesedilla, newly painted nails tapping on the screen as i try to make something that might make sense... youd think after seven whole years id be better at this, better at the brush strokes we call words. but i do not do this for you. i do this, for the closeted queer kids tucked into the back booths, for the dogs sitting in hot cars, for the unseen, for my mother and me. these words, these spells of protection and curses woven out of lines that dont rhyme and unstructured paragraphs i try to excuse as art,they are my only vice. for those unspoken, the only way to find your voice is to rip it out of your chest and throw it onto this stage, and make yourself heard.