This year,
the bluebonnets feel like distractions—
a velvet curtain pulled
over something beginning to fray.
In the rearview,
she hums with Billie Eilish in her headphones,
her face still round with youth,
but beginning to learn its angles.
I worry.
A queer kid in public school,
growing up in a state
that tilts harder
with each new bill.
While those at the top
swing hammers at federal protections,
local extremists finally see their opening.
She catches me watching.
I smile,
because she makes me proud—
and because that’s the role
I’ve been handed:
polishing a mask of promise
for a future I no longer trust.
Inside,
I’m taking notes,
tracking exits,
wondering how fast
the country I once fought for
can forget what it promised.
I used to believe in the swing,
that the arc bends back,
that cruelty burns itself out.
Now I’m not so sure.
It feels like we’re circling a drain,
waving Bibles,
burning books,
hiding hate
beneath the language of—
She laughs at something I can’t hear.
The sound slices clean through the noise,
bright and real and perfect
in a field already fading.
The Truth About Tigers 
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