So there's this thing about #SecondCivilWarLetters going around and what I see are a bunch of glib white people mocking white suburbia, so let me post some of my Second Civil War letter, one I actually wrote shortly before I was surrounded by 300 men with torches and gassed.
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And I think I want that to be my legacy. That though imperfect, I tried to love perfectly.
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Don't bid me caution, because safety is not my choice to make. Don't bid me luck, because I must rely on skill. I walk in tomorrow to face off people who have told me they want me dead...
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that they want to turn America into a white-only continent, that they want to suppress women, to erase queers, to murder people of color. I don't do this to be brave, or to be strong, or to inspire, or to satisfy an ego.
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I do this because every human being deserves the chance to love as I have loved and to be loved as I have been loved. One day. Simply bid me well. I'll see you all on the 13th.
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Within the next 24 hours, I would be attacked by a torch-bearing mob and find myself on-scene during a terrorist attack from someone who wanted to start a race war. Spare me your fucking Olive Garden takes.
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End of conversation
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I wrote those letters the first time I had surgery, in case I didn't wake up. I rewrote them for my second, and third surgeries. I've tried to take away the secrets they had, to make it clear what each person was to me. Amelia never got to find out. So. I already lost.
Thanks. Twitter will use this to make your timeline better. UndoUndo
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