The Propaganda I Won’t Fall for…
Is the biology of love—
A science for Adam and Eve;
A dichotomy of blue and pink,
Where every other hue is bound to sink.
That pride is a phase, not a life.
That who I am is less and unloved.
That holding hands in public is a risk—
Rather than a freedom or right.
But hearts don’t bloom by strict design.
They grow in twists, beyond the lines.
Despite all the rules, I might’ve missed—
I found my truth in a reckless bliss.
The Propaganda I Fell For…
The protest signs in the shape of hearts.
The right one that feels like home,
Where every ache has found its dome,
And soulmates who always made it through.
A Love that creates a perfect scene,
From books, films, and soft-lit dreams.
A single look, a touch, a spark,
Then a happily beating heart.
With confidence, this must be it, at last—
The love that heals, that holds, that lasts.
Because love is wild, not always wise,
So let them call it propaganda…
But our love pulses louder than lies—
A heartbeat marching beneath the skin of a flag.
A flag stitched with storms and glitter.
Where our truth lies unashamed.
Written by Shiela Mae Bautista
