dear club q shooter

the room had an atmosphere
of warm queerness on a cold night,
the sky tapered with navy blue and
freckled with the romantic winks of stars.

the repetitive chime of ice cubes,
glasses rolling across the bar table,
as earsplitting, hyper music
permeated Club Q.

but perhaps this rainbow-tinted room
was stripped of its colors,
when the deafening gunshots 
pierced lavender fear
into these people who wanted
a safe space in a world
marred with queer oppression;

how we wish the sounds of bullets
were just synth-waves of music
that liberated lgbtq+ identity.

the people on that fateful night
only saw the shadowed silhouette
of a rifleman
and murderer. 

maybe he thought he was the harbinger
of god’s plans –
but what did that joyful gay couple across the street
ever do to you?
did they try and hurt you?
is the idea of love
outside of the boundaries of society
so foreign to you?
evil to you?
sinful?

and maybe that trans girl,
who just wants to live her life,
you want to kill her?

and the glasses breaking,
the screams of oppression,
written like teardrops,
gunfire falling down,
raining like fire,
you’ve written a story,
a story of horror
a story of fear,
they thought they were safe –
you’ve disproven them.

the nightclub was a haven
for the lgbtq+ people
of Colorado Springs
but look what you’ve done.

they say that history is written
by victors, not victims;
but let the queer people of Club Q
write their own history.

to the shooter,
your hands of murder
are not the hands of god.
what you’ve done is unforgivable;
you’ve stolen lives and marked others

may the souls of the murder victims
rest in peace
and may justice prevail
in the voice of queer liberation.