Activist

For love, anything —
burn my old letters, sleep
alone, eat candles.
For love, allow myself
nothing and call it a luxury.

For freedom, anything —
bleed bleach, piss angry tears,
lose my shit on crowded streets.
blow up who I am for freedom
or take a bullet to share the wealth.

For class, for dignity, for proper burial, anything —
for this, for that, anything;
let my story be reworded
for any number of high-concept reasons
as long as it pushes us all forward.

But for myself?  Ah, who’s that?
I don’t know who I am,
so why ask what I’d give up
for myself?  I can barely spell that.
I can barely tell you my name.