So I find by the grind of events what they said is true.
Those- those- dead ones. The hunted and running- those sanctified by the pain they refused to let make them martyr.
I have heard that silence is not consent. Silence is death.
It’s not just most of them now. It’s all of them. Every mother’s son of them and every father’s daughter.
But if the words I have said have earned me this silence from the people I loved, then what have they done for me but create a stage on which I alone speak?
If the silences that I did extend them were little closets in which they thought they could decide my story for me, that they could let their lies metastasize from those mother cells and destroy me, then there is no longer any reason for me to allow them one more goddamn drop of silence.
If me speaking up for myself -saying who I am and asking to still be loved- is nastiness (and that is a direct quote!)
Then they don’t deserve my grace.
And if me speaking up for others, in more desperate straits than myself, is unspeakable, I have no words for the cripple-hearted cravens.
And if they all just have completely unrelated reasons for the wall that each and every one of them has put up, then I am completely unrelated to each and every goddamn one of them.
Qui tacet consentire videtur
He who is silent is taken to agree
ubi loqui debuit ac potuit
When he ought to have spoken and was able to
Pussy Riot Forever.