Don't you listen to the trolls, sweetheart, don't you listen when they tells you what you must be, what you can't do, what you don't know.
Who do you think you are? it says.
Who do you think you are, to speak?
Who do you think you are?
And you worry you must have broken some unwritten law, crossed some boundary you never knew existed, touched something proprietary. But there is no law, not a real one, anyway, there never has been, just the heavy yoke of fear: that is your thuggish threat, your scot-free thief, the ill that hovers.
They are afraid of truth, you see, afraid that one day you'll take the blindfold off your eyes and see their ugliness, its greed, its petty motives.
Don't you know who you are, my love? Can't you see that brilliance reflecting from each and every one of your tears shine like a tiny sun, lighting the darkness?
Who are you to speak? they say.
Who gave you the privilege?
But it is not a privilege, it's a right.
