Pride

Pride

I know what shame feels like—what it feels like to craft a mask

to paint it, to hold my head up with string like a marionette

to pretend like I know the meaning of self-love, self-trust

for who I am and who I love for a day or a month

when really I feel none.

 

but, today,

there is no pretending.

I walk with my head held up by the kind of strength

of those marching around me

and on the backs of their kind of courage

to be who they truly are.

and being here, with you,

gives me a kind of pride.

love light as feathers in the air, we

float from stonewall to the 

stone-eyed pundits who sing of doom, and

blues.

our hearts all browned, blackened, 

borrowed for a reddening child with heart hot

and head heavy. he sees

young people dancing like 

gilded moths, goldened 

slowly

by an orange sun.

love grins

greenly

for the new spring in his step.

lavender settles in the lungs

sweetly.

cheeks pink. hands aflush.

indigo crawls up the flag to an 

inky 

night twinkling with pride.

words by rebecca schneid and ayesham khan

Photography by Mindy Wu and Rebecca Schneid