poem21 Sep 2020 08:10 am
Robert Borski
Because we choose to be the way we are, as opposed to acceding to biological dictate or mythic onus, we have been called all sorts of things — turncoat, vyrmin, gusano, paladinite — as if to self-identify as alt-dragon disregards tradition or refutes our natural place in the world. But qui nocet, as our lawyers like to ask, if certain members of our kind choose not to eat meat or abandon the skies; if we deign to wear clothes or learn the human tongue? Nor do we see the docking of our wings and tail as crippling or mutilation, but cautionary (inbred as we are, caudal cancer still kills too many of us) and thus no more barbaric than circumcision or other body modification, from tattoos to piercing. As for why we do what we do, often-cited answers include evolutionary fatigue, hormonal drift, toxic parenting, or morbid attraction to the forbidden, but the truth is far more simple: we are part of and subject to the same continuum of desire as everything else that lives. Yes, my incredulous friends: even creatures with scales, chilled blood, and antediluvian genes are capable of ardor. And though daily we struggle for acceptance, our long-range hope is this: that someday we and our Arthurian paramours will be allowed to walk down the streets unharassed, without being spat upon or called names, and the world, despite our long history of enmity, will recognize and sanctify the union of our two disparate species — we, the fire-breathing Capulets; they, the lance- bearing and resplendently-armored Montagues — for it is not apostasy that flickers in our hearts, but love. And believe me, it is anything but courtly.
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