I pull on my hoodie, grab my skittles and tea
I look at my mother, and she looks at me
I see fear of a badge in her eyes, taunting a tear
and I must ask, “Mother, am I really safe here?”

I look at my father, his face in worry,
I see the TV, the fear and the fury
I pull on my hijab and see the man on TV jeer
and I must ask, “Father, am I really safe here?”

I go in the locker room and see a horrifying sight
Try as I can, yet the failure is in my might
“pansy,” “queer,” “gay” I hear
and I must ask, “Coach, am I really safe here?”

I look at my parents, speaking a foreign tongue
I go to the store where people say what America
has won
I hear jokes about a wall to keep people
from coming near
and I must ask, “America, am I really safe here?”

I go to the restroom, as beings do
The jokes of my gender follow me through
An “it” – confused, sick, so odd and queer
and I must ask, “Help, am I really safe here?”

Am I
Am I
Am I safe here?