The bass line from the sound system crawled through the refurbished walls like a living thing, all reverb and promise, while I settled onto my usual stool at the bar. Miguel was already reaching for the top shelf, that knowing smirk playing at the corners of his mouth—the one that said he'd found something special to pour down my throat tonight.

Got something different for you, he said, pulling down a bottle of Woodford Reserve Double Oaked with the kind of reverence usually reserved for newborns or winning lottery tickets. The amber liquid caught the new warm lighting as he poured, transforming into molten copper, rich as autumn leaves burning at sunset. Thought you could use the good shit tonight. Miranda's reading her poetry.

I accepted the glass, brought it to my nose. Caramel and char, dark chocolate and something like burnt orange peel. The first sip scorched beautiful—all smoke and sweetness wrestling on my tongue before sliding down to pool warm in my chest.

Fuck me, I breathed, that's criminally good.

The Sanctuary hummed with a different energy tonight. Della had set up a small makeshift stage behind the pool table—just a platform really, cobbled together from pallets and plywood, but it elevated whoever stood on it just enough to matter. The pool table itself had been pushed forward to make room, creating an intimate performance space in the back corner. The refurbished lighting made the whole area glow, shadows falling soft instead of harsh, the crimson walls breathing warmth instead of desperation.

Miranda stood on that makeshift stage, clutching a worn notebook against her chest like a shield. Her hands trembled—I could see it from here, the way her fingers pressed white against the cover. She'd pulled her hair back severe, and her face held that particular brand of terror I recognized: the kind that came from deciding to be seen, really fucking seen, consequences be damned.

Ezra bounced over from their beanbag chair, blue hair catching the light like ocean spray. Is she really doing this? Like, actually reading her stuff out loud?

Looks like it, Keira said from beside me, her voice carrying that particular edge of pride she got when one of our people stepped into their power. She didn't reach for me, didn't touch—just let her words land with weight. About damn time someone claimed space for poetry in this joint.

Bubba settled his considerable frame onto a stool three down from me, his deep Southern drawl cutting through the ambient noise. Poetry night. Shit. Haven't been to one of these since Atlanta in '89. That was before... well. Before a lot of things. His eyes carried decades of stories he'd never tell, worn smooth by time and survival.

The kitchen door swung open and Della emerged, wiping her hands on her apron. She'd been making something with peppers—the air still carried that bright, assertive heat. Miguel, baby, turn that shit down. Can't hear a goddamn word with all that noise.

Miguel obliged, and suddenly the room felt more intimate, the silence pressing in with expectation. Renee stood near the back, arms crossed over her considerable chest, face set in that expression she wore when she was pretending not to care but cared so fucking much it hurt to look at her directly.

Sage sat at a corner table, already sketching something intricate on a napkin, their fingers moving with the kind of certainty the rest of us spent lifetimes searching for.

Alright, Miranda's voice cracked like glass under pressure from the stage behind the pool table. Alright, I'm... I'm going to read some pieces tonight. About being trans. About... about Christmas and family and— She stopped, swallowed hard. About surviving all the bullshit that comes with existing in a body the world wants to debate.

Fuck yes, Ezra stage-whispered, and a few people laughed, the tension breaking just enough.

This first one is called Christmas 2024, Miranda announced, her voice steadying just a fraction.

The poem landed like a punch to the solar plexus. Miranda's voice started shaky but gained strength as she read from her elevated position, and even though I couldn't see the words on her page, I could feel them—every syllable about angels and shepherds and the crushing weight of being told you're the sin Christ came to save the world from. The room went stone silent except for her voice, and when she finished, the quiet that followed held more weight than any sound.

Bubba cleared his throat, rough as gravel. Lord. That's... that right there is what it felt like being Black in south Georgia, wondering if God made a mistake putting me in this skin. His massive hands cradled his beer bottle like it might shatter. Except you can't take off your skin, can't hide what you are when what you are is written on your face. At least I had that in common with Jesus—we both knew what it meant to be hated for existing.

It's the religious trauma, Dani said, her voice sharp and certain. The way they weaponize God against us. Like they get to decide who the divine loves, who deserves grace. That's not theology—that's fucking terrorism with a cross.

Miguel poured himself a shot, knocked it back. The part about the angel—asking if the baby can speak yet, if he's ready after 2,000 years to tell them she's not the sin— He stopped, blinking hard. Fuck.

Miranda gripped her notebook tighter on the stage, tears already tracking down her face, but she pressed on.

This one's called You'd Look So Pretty, she said.

The second poem came out harder, angrier. I caught fragments of meaning—bathroom mirrors and butterfly tattoos and boots stomping out something delicate before it could fully form. The violence of being seen and destroyed in the same breath. Compliments that felt like death sentences.

When she finished, her whole body shook.

Keira's voice cut through the aftermath, low and fierce. Every trans woman I know has that story. The moment someone saw them and either loved them to death or killed them with kindness that felt like knives. You'd look so pretty as a girl—like it's a fucking costume we put on, not the skin we finally grew into.

My sister's friend, Renee said quietly, staring at her hands. These massive, powerful hands that had built the body she thought would make her happy. She used to tell me I'd make a good-looking man. Thought it was a compliment. Didn't understand she was telling me I was failing at being a woman the right way. She laughed, bitter as burnt coffee. Took me years to realize she was just as scared of me as I was of myself.

My throat went tight. The weight of compliments that cut, praise that killed—I knew that territory too fucking well. The before times, when people told me I made such a handsome man, such a good father figure, such a strong masculine presence. Never knowing they were hammering nails into a coffin I was trying to claw my way out of.

The third one, Miranda said from the stage, her voice barely holding together. This one's called Don't Remember Me for My Resilience. It's about... about erasure. About first they came and last they came and how we don't even make it into the fucking poem about genocide because we're already deleted.

She read, and Jesus Christ, it gutted me. The part about telling friends you love them just in case. About eggs—trans people who haven't hatched yet—and how one died because he got caught in his girlfriend's panties and couldn't live with being seen. About library books and illusions and pilot lights and wanting to be constant in a world that kept trying to extinguish you.

When she finished, the silence felt apocalyptic.

An egg, Sage said softly, their hands still moving across their napkin. I was an egg for thirty-two years. Kept checking out books about magic, about transformation, about becoming something other than what everyone said I was. They looked up, eyes ancient despite their twenty-eight years. The ones who don't survive... they're the ones who ran out of metaphors. Ran out of ways to explain themselves to people who'd already decided they were better off dead.

The book burners are already here, Della said, standing up like she might start a protest right here in the basement. They're banning our books, our history, our right to exist in public spaces. And half the people who claim to love us won't even share a goddamn post because it might make their feed too political. She turned to Miranda on the stage. Don't remember you for your resilience—I felt that in my fucking bones. I'm so tired of having to be strong. I just want to exist without it being an act of warfare.

Della emerged from the kitchen with a plate of something that smelled like home and walked it up to the stage, setting it down at Miranda's feet without a word. Just squeezed her shoulder once, hard. Keep going. We're here.

Miranda looked down at the food, at Della, at all of us watching from below, and something shifted in her face. Some wall came down, some armor got set aside. She picked up her notebook again.

Last one, she said. This one's called Wax Cylinder. It's about... about the fragility of being heard. About voice.

She read about wax cylinders and phonographs, about how the act of listening destroys the thing being listened to, scratching scars across the surface of sound. About words breaking into glittering pieces and being swept away. About holding someone's voice in your hand while it cracked apart. About booming orations once held for audiences, now fragile and rotating in the grip of a single hand.

When she finished, she just stood there on that makeshift stage behind the pool table, notebook hanging at her side, tears streaming unchecked down her face.

Bubba stood up—this mountain of a man moving with careful grace—walked over to the stage and reached up to help Miranda down, then wrapped her in a hug that looked like it could break ribs but somehow conveyed nothing but safety. Girl, he rumbled, your voice ain't breaking. It's breaking through. There's a difference.

Ezra launched themselves at Miranda next, all enthusiasm and blue hair and fierce young energy. Holy shit, holy shit, that was so fucking beautiful I can't even—

And then everyone was moving, converging on Miranda like she'd summoned us with her words and made us real in the speaking. Renee's hand on her shoulder. Sage offering up the napkin they'd been drawing on—some intricate mandala that somehow captured the entire evening in ink.

Miguel poured shots for everyone—well, everyone who wanted one—and Della came out of the kitchen with more plates because feeding people was how she loved, how she made sense of a world that often made no fucking sense at all.

Keira leaned close to me, not touching, just existing in my space. You should read sometime. Your stories—they matter too.

I shook my head, sipped my criminally good bourbon. Not tonight. And you know no one reads my stories anyway. I write them about what happens in here, so I can remember these memories. I don’t do that for other people. One day maybe they’ll find them all and someone will publish them.

People started talking again, the conversation flowing around Miranda like water around a stone that had finally found its place in the riverbed. The makeshift stage behind the pool table stood empty now, but it had served its purpose—elevated her just enough to be seen, just enough to make her voice carry to every corner of this refurbished basement sanctuary.

I was so scared, Miranda said to no one and everyone, still wiping at her face. I thought... I thought maybe the words would come out wrong, or people wouldn't understand, or—

Or we'd see you, I said, meeting her eyes. And that's the most terrifying fucking thing, isn't it? Being seen exactly as you are, all the broken beautiful parts, and having people not look away.

She nodded, couldn't speak.

Bubba raised his beer bottle. To Miranda. To every damn one of us who keeps finding new ways to say I'm here, I exist, I matter—even when the world keeps trying to tell us otherwise.

We drank to that. Even Sage, who rarely drank anything stronger than tea, took a sip of water and nodded like it counted the same.

The evening wore on, conversation spinning out in a dozen directions. Della went back to the kitchen and emerged with more food—empanadas this time, crispy and golden, filled with spiced meat that fell apart on the tongue.

Phoenix would have loved this, I thought. Would have sat cross-legged on the floor in front of that makeshift stage, absorbing every word, every truth spoken into existence. But they were home tonight with River, building their own kind of poetry in the quiet spaces between heartbeats.

Miranda stayed until closing, her notebook open on the bar, accepting compliments and conversations and the occasional hug from people who understood that words could be weapons or wings, depending on who wielded them. Her face had transformed from terror to something like peace—the kind that came from being witnessed and not destroyed in the witnessing.

When Miguel finally called last call, the bar felt warmer than the refurbishment alone could account for. Something else had been built here tonight, something intangible but essential. Another brick in the wall of sanctuary we kept constructing against the world's casual cruelties.

Same time next month? Dani asked Miranda.

Miranda smiled, still shaky but genuine. Yeah. Yeah, I think so.

I finished my bourbon, set the glass down gentle. The night had cracked something open in all of us, left us raw and real and somehow more whole for the breaking. Outside, the world still churned on, indifferent to our survival. But here, in this refurbished basement with its crimson walls and careful lighting and the lingering smell of Della's cooking and that makeshift stage behind the pool table, we'd created something the world couldn't touch.

We'd made space for voices the world wanted silenced. We'd listened until the listening became an act of revolution. And tomorrow we'd do it again, and the day after that, and the day after that—because that's what sanctuary meant. Not safety from the world, but safety to exist within it, exactly as we were, no apologies necessary.

Miranda hugged me before she left, her arms tight around my shoulders. Thank you, she whispered.

I didn't ask what for. I already knew.

"The salvation of man is through love and in love." — Viktor E. Frankl, Man's Search for Meaning

In the basement of The Sanctuary, we learned that survival isn't enough—we must also bear witness to each other's pain and beauty with equal reverence. Miranda's poetry carved space for truth in a world designed to silence it, and in the listening, we transformed private suffering into collective resistance. Frankl understood that meaning emerges not from avoiding pain but from choosing how we carry it, how we transmute it into something that connects rather than isolates. Tonight, Miranda didn't just read poems—she offered her scars as proof of persistence, and we offered our presence as proof she wasn't alone in the carrying. That exchange, that holy transaction of vulnerability met with unwavering witness, is the love that saves us when nothing else can.

Miranda is a very dear friend, who is very much real. And you should read her works @ http://www.thepoetmiranda.com