I was born on the streets of New York, literally, and was one of nine, coming sixth in the line-up.  I never knew my father, none of us did.  He didn’t stick around and to be honest I can’t be sure we each had the same one.  My mother basically catted around a lot but that was sort of typical since she was a cat. 

Oh, didn’t I mention that I’m a cat? My apologies. Yes, I am a cat. I am that scraggly looking bag of fur and bones you chase from your garbage pails on a daily basis when all I am out to do is scrounge a little something to eat from the scraps you throw away the same as your own kind is sometimes left to hold out a begging hand.

It's not easy, growing up homeless and maybe if you stopped for a minute you might realize that but not for queer fate it could be you out here.  How well do you think you would do on the streets? Do you think you could survive without your t.v. and bed and pillow? Would you know how to pick through garbage for a meal of stale bread?

            You wouldn’t think a cat would eat bread but it’s what humans throw out the most, that and bones with two or three bites of meat still left. A veritable feast. Sad that you have so much but appreciate so little. Maybe if you had to fight for it or maybe if your life depended on it you'd have a different view of things.  

            Why am I telling you all this? I don't know. Maybe becasue it's about time one of us out here did. We're not garbage, y'know. We deserve to matter, to be cared about, cried over, worried for and loved the same as you. The world is a scary place when you have to face it all alone. 

            Maybe you should try imagining it and tonight, when you lay your head on your fluffy  soft pillow, say a little prayer for us out here as we curl up and lay our heads on stone pillows.