How am I supposed to be this honest? I know youre not a Magic 8 Ball. Youre just some lady that wrote a book. I fall asleep with that book in my arms because words protect hearts and Ive got this ache in my chest that wont go away. I read Raging Flower and now I dream of raised fists and solidarity marches led by matriarchs fueled by caf con leche where I can march alongside cigar-smoking doas and Black Power dykes and all the worlds weirdos and no one is left out. And no one is living a lie.