My fear manifests in the quiver of my fingers, a silent confession etched in trembling hands. Contemplating the threshold I must draw at the entrance of my door, I ponder its form, seeking a barrier sturdy enough to repel loss without alienating those I hold dear.

Whoever lives in a tent fears its back door, it never closes, belongings will slip away with each gust of wind.

With trembling fingers and an open tent door, I welcome love-hungry friends like me. I call them by their new names, the ones they chose for their smiles and dance with them around a fire that lights and warms at once.

Come in and I will write to you about everything that was in that sad country.

If only they had taken my hand instead of cutting it off, I mourn the loss of what could have been—a life blooming with the vibrancy of flowers rather than stained with the spillage of blood.

I am not that strong, but they taught me the fear of weakness. They lined my body with the ticking bombs of all that is forbidden and shameful. Now I walk with my hands touching them at all times, as if passing through a minefield! In order not to die, I denied my body and embodied my country.

I am not worried either, but I used to walk discreetly in narrow lanes, avoiding the main roads owned by others.

I was not born compatible with society's expectations of conformity, so I curled up inside the labyrinths I had. At night, I ran away from questions and found all of you there, maskless and trembling like me.

I then knew this is where I belonged, this is my new family. Here, within the sanctuary of our chosen family, there are no mirrors, only images of love that adorn the walls, and windows flung wide open.