Dear 2020,
If you were a person
I would say “fuck you”
for taking my sweet year away,
my spring break and graduation,
I’d say “fuck you” for making me
pack all my shit up in March
and having to construct my own goodbye
out of a small moment in my room alone.
I’d say “fuck you”
for making friends scared to see each other
and family scared to hug each other.
I’d say “fuck you” for making us sick,
for burning up the forests
and letting things go so wrong for so long
I’d say “fuck you” for every job application I sent out,
every resume I tailored,
which is thirty-four “fuck yous” alone.
I’d say “fuck you” for taking away live music,
those places where we could all breathe
through our legs and moving arms,
the places where we shared sweat and mixed breath.
I’d say “fuck you” for crushing all the little guys
while the big guys keep on growing
and “fuck you” for all the space you made
for Trump to tell those “proud boys” to “stand by.”
2020, if you were a person though,
I would also say “thank you”
“thank you” for throwing me into the world head first,
“thank you” for the people I got to be quarantined with,
“thank you” for the picnics and the camping trips,
for the mimosas on a weekday
“thank you” for that special magic we felt
when we spent a night together past curfew.
“Thank you” for the fire—
not the flames that outran the trees—
but for the fire that got us out in the streets
with signs and muscle and voice
and the lungs to yell,
“I can’t breathe.”
“Thank you” for teaching me to stand on my feet
even though you did it by knocking me down.
“Thank you” for the reckoning,
for the mirrors that we all needed,
to see some of the shit we didn’t want to look at before.
“Thank you” for the exposure therapy
to the unknown.
Because 2021, if you are a person,
I don’t know you yet
but 2020, you’ve given me the balls
and the tits,
the lungs and the guts
to meet 2021 with strength, gratitude, and hope.
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