Let Their Seats Burn

I’m Moldovan

And proud of every root I carry.

Because in Moldova and Romania

People greet you with warmth,

Not with knives in their smiles.

But some places?

Some crowds?

They breathe hatred like oxygen —

Mocking legs, teeth, skin, walk,

As if bullying makes them gods.

As if their tiny minds

Could measure my worth.

Let me be clear:

This isn’t about one group,

One tribe, one ethnicity.

I’m calling out every clown

Who acts like a Nazi with a cheap haircut,

Every bully who thinks

Their opinion is a throne.

If they want to judge me,

Let their seats burn.

Let their lies catch fire.

Let the heat remind them

What it feels like to stand too close

To the cruelty they created.

Meanwhile, I live my life

Without asking anyone’s permission.

I’ve got plans — real ones:

Shockproof gadgets,

Freedom in my backpack,

Dreams tucked into carry‑on luggage.

And above all,

My strongest, purest love —

My father,

The only man whose voice

Could calm a storm in me.

So let the haters roast

In the smoke of their own bitterness.

I’ve got better places to be.

Better people to meet.

A better life to build.

And no one —

No bully, no racist, no self‑made tyrant —

Gets to rewrite my story.