What the Factory farmed Chicken says to queers protesting Chick-fil-A’s stance against same sex marriage.
I sympathize with how you’ve endured physical and emotional violence against your own natural desires.
We chickens live with the daily murder of our desire to be social animals.
In the packed slaughterhouse, we have less space to exist than your average notebook paper.
You could call the inability to move our version of The Closet,
but trying to reassure me by saying, “You’re not alone,” is a moot point among mass murder.
On the bright side, the crowd of Right Wing Christians at Chick-fil-A is actually quite small.
You should check out where I’m imprisoned.
I’m in here with 10,000 plus beakless birds.
You should see the ones who keep phantom pecking despite their de-beaking.
Those are the ones who love the hardest,
whose entire bodies have become bloodied with the weight of hope.
The nature of the dialogue gets so distorted.
Nobody is asking, “Have you ever seen a pasture before? Have you ever been able to walk?”
They keep saying it’s our fault. There are just too many of us bird brains.
I want to tell them to stop saying “Did your Momma make you gay?”
and rephrase the question as “How do we genuinely love ourselves and each other?”
I need you to make out for me.
Make out in front of Chick-fil-A to show them you’re proud of your beaks.
If I had a beak, I would speak baffled bird,
punching holes through your cheeks until I side swipe your tongue.
I would steal this flag of your hunger until it becomes a rainbow underneath which
any two consenting adults can marry each other.
In return, I would expect you to eventually get around to liberating us from the factory.
I mean, once you’re done fighting for your rights and all.