Your Hate, Our Fight

“Protect the children,” you scream, Marjorie,

as if your hands aren’t red with the harm you create.

You aim your laws like loaded guns,

calling trans kids “groomers,”

calling parents “abusers,”

as if their love is the real crime.

Nancy, you cry “women’s spaces,”

as if erasing trans girls makes you a savior.

You legislate fear in the name of safety,

but all you create is silence and shame.

Lauren, you howl “supremacy of gays,”

as if love is a weapon

and our happiness is your defeat.

But we know the truth:

you don’t fear our power—

you fear our existence.

Your words hit like stones.

They shatter mirrors,

shatter hearts.

They become the whispers in locker rooms,

the slurs etched on bathroom stalls,

the screams of a child who has lost hope.

But here’s the thing about stones:

we build with them.

“I’m scared that my rights will vanish,”

a 16-year-old girl says,

hiding in a bathroom she’s been told she doesn’t belong in.

“I’ll be forced to use the wrong one again,

and my teachers won’t respect who I am.”

“It feels like we’re moving backward,”

a boy mutters in his bedroom,

watching lawmakers debate his right to exist.

“It’s not just laws;

it’s the way people look at you

after hearing politicians call you a monster.”

You do not protect children.

You weaponize their innocence,

their confusion, their fear.

You wrap your hate in legislation,

tie it with a bow, and call it morality.

But we’ve seen your morality before—

it looks like conversion camps.

It sounds like slurs whispered in church pews.

It smells like smoke from a parade gone up in flames.

It is nothing but fear wearing the mask of righteousness.

We remember the battles we’ve fought.

We were kids when you called us sinners.

We were teenagers when you tried to silence us.

We were adults when we tore down the doors

you built to keep us out.

We’ve marched in the streets,

kissed in defiance,

loved in rebellion.

Stonewall was our riot.

Marriage equality was our revolution.

The end of Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell

was our silence broken.

You tried to break us then,

but we are not so easily broken.

“They talk about us like we’re bad people.

I just want to feel normal,”

a boy whispers, his voice trembling

beneath the weight of your lies.

But we are not broken.

There is nothing wrong with us.

Everything is wrong with you.

You build walls of legislation,

but we climb higher.

You throw stones,

but we stand taller.

We fought for our right to marry.

We fought for our right to serve.

We fought for our right to live.

And we will fight for you,

for every child who feels forgotten,

for every soul they try to erase.

We wear our rainbows like armor.

Our laughter shakes the walls of your fear.

Our love dances on the ashes of your hate.

Our voices are storms,

shaking the foundations of your lies.

Our joy is rebellion.

Our existence is resistance.

To the kid hiding in the stall:

We see you.

To the teen who can’t meet their own eyes in the mirror:

We hear you.

To the child whispering, “Why do they hate me?”

We know your pain.

You are not alone.

You are not a mistake.

You are not what they call you.

We fought so you could run.

We bled so you could rise.

And when they come for you,

we’ll stand beside you,

shields locked, voices raised.

“Every time they talk about ‘protecting kids,’

I wonder if they mean me,”

a child says,

her voice breaking like glass.

They don’t mean you.

But we do.

We’ve bled in this fight.

We’ve marched for this fight.

We’ve kissed, screamed, and loved in this fight.

And we are not done.

To every child wondering if they’re alone—

you’re not.

To every teen hiding their truth,

afraid of what the world will do—

we are here.

To every soul they try to erase—

we will always be here.

You cannot legislate us into silence.

You cannot erase us.

We are louder than your hate,

stronger than your fear,

and we are just getting started.

This is our fight.

This is our promise.

And we’re not fucking going anywhere.