I love the way the pages don't look like me

Their words are sunsets, beautiful and continuous

I love the words that are me as well

The mirror I wished upon in a television set in 2005,

between playground turf wars I always lost,

Cheetah Girls reruns and the race to lose teeth

The men are angry again

What is it this time?

Our stories, my stories

The voices, our voices

became louder than their bigotry,

so, they desire the days they weren't alive to recall

But I love the way the pages don't look like me,

The way the child's dreams dance on pages they can touch

but they say that magic is too much for them.

How so, when they were made the youthful sparks?

From flameless entities, desire for representation?

The men are angry again.

So am I

I cry and scream as they burn the dust jackets,

My favorite stories are on fire

And that flame is in the name of safety'?