Cactus fists that seek out peach blossom cheeks,
Iron rods red hot that seek the quench of young blood.
Eyes once luminous now shielded from your staredown.
Grins mask your Hitler-esque passion for my pain.
I am here, in this moment, feeling, tasting, immersed
In your chasm of ego fueled ignorance.
I want you to know, that even with the barrel of your
Hate pistol pressed in my throat, I breathe thru my
Loved ones and I embrace the fact that…
It Gets Better.
Frank Malaba © 2010