Whom Shall I Fear?
In a country that tells us to fear the wrong things, I wrote this to name what actually scares me. It’s not drag queens or trans folks — it’s the systems and hypocrisies hiding behind a god-shaped flag. This is a poem for every queer person who’s ever been targeted by people claiming divine protection while ignoring their own harm.
Shot at golden hour in my Pussy Boys crop top, this video captures me reading “Whom Shall I Fear?”—a raw, queer Southern poem reclaiming faith, safety, and rage. Sunset, softness, and defiance all in one breath.
Whom Shall I Fear?
(spoiler: not drag queens)
They say,
“If God is for us, who can be against us?”
as if God’s just some cosmic bodyguard
with a megachurch VIP pass
and a taste for Chick-fil-A.
I’m told to be afraid—
of libraries,
of eyeliner,
of men in wigs lip-syncing to Whitney
(heaven forbid they hit the high note better than your church choir).
But me?
I’m afraid of credit scores,
for-profit prisons,
the words “thoughts and prayers”
on a GoFundMe post
for yet another uninsured kid
with a curable disease.
I’m afraid of the man
with the fish sticker on his truck
and an AR-15 in the trunk—
preaching family values
while texting his mistress
from the pew.
I’m afraid of laws written by men
who can’t find the clitoris
but can find a way
to regulate a uterus
in three legislative steps.
I’m afraid of HOA meetings,
Karen in a casserole mood,
and billionaires on spaceships
while your cousin Dave dies
working three jobs
and still can’t afford insulin.
I’m afraid of churches
that spend more time
checking skirt lengths
than checking their own
power-hungry pastors
who “counsel” queer teens
straight into therapy—
or worse.
I’m afraid of the god
in your Facebook memes,
the one who smites
but never listens.
And I laugh—
not nervously,
but with my whole chest—
when you confuse
a cis woman in heels
for a trans woman in confidence—
and think a drag show
is more dangerous
than your pastor’s Pornhub history.
Whom shall I fear?
Maybe the guy quoting Leviticus
while ignoring the part about shellfish—
and the whole love-your-neighbor bit.
Not the trans woman
minding her business at Target.
Not the queer teen
with glitter and a dream.
Not the drag queen
giving life in a small-town bar
where someone finally feels seen.
So miss me
with your misplaced phobias
and sanctified panic.
I’ll be over here—
fearing climate collapse,
corporate greed,
and the next time you say
“I’ll pray for you”
like it’s a hex.
I wrote “Whom Shall I Fear?” before this trip — but this photo is what I meant. Drag queens, trans advocates, Sisters of Perpetual Indulgence, St Pete Pride, and my crew from TransNetwork all showing up in Tallahassee with protest signs, fierce eyeliner, and holy resistance.
Backstory: I Thought I Was Healed
This one comes from the gut.
I grew up around verses like “Whom shall I fear?” being tossed around like shields — not to protect the vulnerable, but to justify control. In the Vineyard church, I was part of that culture for years. I sang the songs. I memorized the scripture. I swallowed the shame.
And I genuinely believed I was doing the right thing.
Now, decades later, I see how fear gets dressed up in god-speak. I’ve watched lawmakers in my own state twist religion into legislation — targeting trans folks, drag queens, and queer joy like it’s some moral crusade. I’ve stood on the steps in Tallahassee, shoulder to shoulder with people I love, telling our representatives: You’re afraid of the wrong things.
It’s wild to see the same playbook run over and over — just with different masks. From gay panic to drag panic to gender panic. They never run out of costumes. But I ran out of patience.
This poem is a reckoning. It’s for the kid I used to be. The queer adults I now fight for. The communities still told to shrink themselves for someone else’s comfort. And it’s for the version of me that finally broke free from all that religious toxicity.
I don’t fear who I am anymore.
I fear a world where people like me are silenced.
So I speak — louder, prouder, and glitter-covered.
