The heat damage, the smelly

flatiron in all homes inhabited

by emos, the jeans hugging

every crevice in the lower body,

the colorful sadness. The Black-

palette makeup & hair; Black teens

mad cause their shit wouldn’t lay down.

The snake-eyes. The quiet-but-present

queerness. The world did 9/11 &

expected kids to move on. Instead we made

music filled with crying white boys.

Made ourselves headbang to Sk8r Boi. Gender

didn’t matter; everybody equally draped in

angst; the Hot Topic & Spencer’s run every mall visit.

Sometimes Zumiez; sometimes, we linked up

just to flail our arms & dance.

No talking needed. Our statement piece

spoken through wearing blocked colors

& swoops. Skull candy & nano. Rhinestone

belt & dust congregating on our Chucks; what if

it wasn’t a phase? What if that sliver

of time was youth telling everyone: speak up?

I love myself

enough to tell Tron now: we didn’t wear

shutter shades for nothing. Everything

slightly devastates, so we have to look away—

KB is a Black/queer/transmasculine poet, essayist, cultural worker, and Artivism Fellow with Broadway Advocacy Coalition. They write to tether themselves to the history of folks like them and to validate the experiences/personhood of Black, queer, and trans people. KB has pieces published with Huffington Post, American Poetry Review, Teen Vogue, and other places. They are the author of How To Identify Yourself with a Wound (Kallisto Gaia Press, 2022) and Freedom House (Deep Vellum Publishing, 2023). Follow them online at @earthtokb.

Photo: @Planetnehemiah