I’m writing this poem because
the cutting glares,
the jagged judgment
from strangers on the street
still chinks my armor—
Exposing my blackened limbs,
splattered with the remnants
of lies once lived.
I’m writing this poem because
I’m still scared
to hold my boyfriend’s
hand in public
because people,
hateful people,
display their disgust,
their disapproval,
their disappointment promptly
on their brow.
As if my life,
my ****** orientation
somehow affects them,
infects them,
injects my deadly
sin in them.
I’m writing this poem because,
yes, this is my boyfriend.
And no, we don’t want to f*** you.
And yes, we’re second class citizens.
And no, we didn’t cause 9/11.
And yes, we are exclusive.
And no, God doesn’t hate us.
And yes, we want a family.
And know God doesn’t hate us.
May 8, 2014
May 8, 2014 at 1:00 PM UTC
Look at em.
Where did he get
the marker to make the sign?
Where did he get the sign from?
I bet he stole that jacket.
I bet he fakin too.
He don’t look *****
enough to be homeless.
Uh-unnn, that lady
must be stupid
she just gave him some
money. Must be scared.
I bet he go straight
to the liquor store
or to go get some drug.
Mhmmmm,
they never fool me.
drives off
Apr 8, 2014
Apr 8, 2014 at 8:24 PM UTC
You left us
at home
with hearts
cold enough
to freeze stone.
You left us
on Earth
to deal with them
alone.
Apr 1, 2014
Apr 1, 2014 at 11:07 PM UTC
I’m afraid
you won’t lend
yourself to bend
beneath my heavy hand
the colors I’d love
to see blend
the chemistry
either mixes too much
or not enough
Just like
a water color painting.
Mar 9, 2014
Mar 9, 2014 at 4:47 PM UTC
If you loved me
I'd place a chair in your heart
so no one could take my spot.
Mar 5, 2014
Mar 5, 2014 at 9:01 PM UTC