You are a hidden canvas locked away in a heart-shaped box. The iron key that barely cracks you open reveals golden letters inscribed in Farsi on a glossy purple leather case. I turn the latch right to left, and separate the pages stuck together. An amalgamation of thoughts, ideas, notes, stories, lyrics, stanzas, and letters, longing to be freed.
You are always there for me, when I’m feeling down, when I need to express my opinions, and when I don’t.
You are my best friend, my therapist, and my morning motivation. You catch my falling tears and let me share my fears.
But you are so much more if I can trust myself, not block myself.
Without filtering, without silencing, and in spite of fears.
You are a pure way to express, expose, advocate, proclamate.
Resist, redress, protest.
You are a manifesto, a peace treaty, and a human right.
You are love, joy, inspiration, and hope.
You are what so many fight for, long for, and die for.
You were at my first march on Hollywood and Vine and at the Federal Building countless times.
You are resistance if I’m brave.
You are a promise I made.
I am unlearning, un-hiding, re-wiring, to be with you.
I owe it to those who don’t have the privilege to
have you.
