Pretty men, step out of your shadows,
you were never built to live hidden.
Pretty pretty women, step out of your mirrors,
stop mistaking reflection for identity.
Pretty people, don't be afraid,
they will come for you anyway.
They came before, with fire dressed as order,
with history written in smoke and denial.
They'll scorch you the way they always have,
not for what you are, but for what you represent.
They'll hang meaning on your existence
like bodies on branches no one claims.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem