today exists
in movie stills
i have only
ever been
a ghost
in my
own
skin

in the summer:
she poured peach wine down my body.
she folded her paisley hands into my hair.
I made art for the dead prostitutes and the dead carpenter,
and I made art for her.


in the nightclub:
when the floor was red with liquor and gunshot, did they know?


in my heart:
I’m scared that I’ll betray you when the rifles bring us down;
I'm only hoping my switchblade can protect us now.


a mass shooting in a holy place
in the summer
I heard bodies dancing and laughing
I heard bodies bleeding and dying
I heard bodies
I heard bodies
in the summer


when I taste like judas, will you tell me?
when we exit the tobacco smoke, will you tell me?
I’ll betray you,
I’ll betray you, and I don't want to,
because if I could only breathe in your daisy chain hair,
if I could only breath in your summer eyes,
if I could only breath in you,
I’d be singing of my revival from the hanging corpse life I have been living,
and my aunt lisa’s gonna weep when I tell her about you.

This country was founded on the idea of being who you are in liberty, yet there are people stuck in closets because the monsters are on the other side and the darkness has become too comforting at this point. The face of death has become too beautiful to want to turn away. We are hidden, dancing around the idea of being hung as perfectly as that shirt that was “too gay”. We are wondering how to propose to the Grim Reaper because at this point, he is the only man who can “make us straight”, at least in my case. Others would give him a blow in exchange for their soul. The asexuals, though, are finding the words to ask death out on a coffee date. We’re all just thinking and wishing. We’re rolling out our blueprints and studying the structure of surviving instead of accepting that we’re different and actually living. The pride that used to live in us died a long time ago. Maybe around the same time we were in the closets writing our suicide notes. For me it was the day my mother said the idea of me having lesbian friends gave her headaches. Let me not even get into how high her blood pressure would rise if I told her she had a pansexual daughter. “Had”. Now I am but a corpse living among the resurrected by Christ and I constantly ask myself when God is going to baptize me. I ask myself when I am going to stop looking like a zombie from the Walking Dead because, ******* it, I never learned the script or signed up for any of this. I never even wanted to be an actress. I wanted to be a singer. I wanted to sing the songs of my love for her and let the paparazzi spread rumors of how I cheated because I’m that ******* hot. Mother, I wanted to be a singer, but you ripped my tonsils out and told me to smile for the camera and look pretty. But mother, have you ever thought of something? What if she’s the only one I want to look pretty for?

Pearl earrings.  They came
in a red box with gold lettering
I unwrapped in the
restaurant parking lot
on a humid evening before
my college graduation
where we milled around,
waiting for our table.

My father's gift.

One year later, in the same place,
I put them on;
my father walked me down the aisle
to marry a good man.
Wrapped in a princess dress.
Towing a six-foot train.

My mother's dream.

They stayed in my jewelry box
for one decade plus five.
Years while I played
hide and seek with depressions
and wondered who that person
in the mirror was.

My straight persona.

When  I think of that now
I remember--
pearls are made of pain.
The substance the oyster makes
to coat the grit, or
whatever makes its way
into the shell.

The process transforming
the ugly, raw, pain
into the lustre of something
priceless.

My house is a closet
And I spend my days peeking through the cracks
In the door.

Trying to get out
While you cling to the keys
And lock me inside.

We all know about Rudolph
and how his nose lights up the night
And olive, the other reindeer
Who help Santa with his flight

But, there's one who is forgotten
From the Christmas songs and rhymes
And I think you should hear about him
Yes, I think it is about time

Randy was a reindeer
He liked to play the reindeer games
But he too, was like Rudolph
And the others called him names

Randy, wasn't much at flying
Didn't like going out most nights
Randy, well, he was just different
You see, he was afraid of heights

He couldn't see where he was going
Either in the day or night
You see Randy needed glasses
He had a problem with his sight

His balance was in question
Always falling to the ground
If a reindeer falls in the forest
Does that reindeer make a sound?

He had a skin condition
He needed special cream to help
The harness didn't help him
In fact, it made him yelp

He was shorter than the others
And his stride was a bit off
And when Santa came to see him
Randy had a nervous cough

He didn't like the female reindeer
He liked the males, more than he should
Randy was "light up in the antlers"
And to Santa, that's no good

Santa couldn't fly with Randy
Randy's name, it was all wrong
It screamed out Broadway not of Christmas
It didn't work in all the songs

Santa said "you're a strange reindeer"
"You can't fly, you're blind and gay"
"And if you led my team out"
"We'd not be done in just one day"

"I'm sorry, reindeer Randy"
"I have to cut you from the team"
"They play one side,you're another"
"If you know what Santa means"

So, Randy, he just wanders
Round the north pole all the while
Bumping into things and falling
With his light antlers and strange smile

He's not a famous reindeer
And I think that it's ok
That Santa has a reindeer
Who, we now all know is gay.

I am Christian. I believe in the
Trinity of the Holy God, The Son, and The Spirit,
I believe that Jesus is the Son of God and the savior of mankind
I own more than three Bibles
I teach Sunday School every week and
I pray every night.
I am Christian,
And as such I
Hate queer....

Phobia. I can not stand intolerance
And I cry at hatred,
Blood running in the streets,
Fear running in veins,
Running away from the truth.
I am Christian, yet
There are bloodstains in my Bible
And the prayers on my lips
Are for forgiveness for who I am.
The entire story of ***** is
Crossed out, blacked out angrily
In the dead of night
In all 4 versions,
Leviticus is blurred,
Wrinkled with my tears,
Soaked with my pain.
I am Christian
And I am not homophobic.
I know my church won't recognize
Non cis-het marriages,
Leaving entire worlds of rainbows in the dark
The higher-ups insist
Weddings are white, shiny, husband-and-wife, happily-ever-after affairs
That shove me and my friends, my  family, my lovers,
Into closets of heavenly wrath and
Fire and brimstone sermons,
Locked into personal hells of shame
And confusion.
I am Christian
And I am not straight.
My God doesn't hate me for who I love,
He loves me because I try not to hate.
So to the homophobic Christians, I ask:
Who is your God?
Who is your God that supposedly condemns people He has created in his own image?
Your rainbow picket signs are nothing but a cruel mockery of a covenant
Not truly shared by you.
Your tongues are no better than the viper's who called Adam and Eve to sin,
You are the vipers of my world.
Do you think you avoid judgement
When trans teens are killed
By the bullets you spit with your words?
Who is your God,
That tells you to picket the funerals
Of those you hate?
Who is your God,
That refuses to let you open your heart to differentness?
I am Christian,
And I don't need your permission to
Love my God.
Take my scars and tear-stained Bibles,
Listen to my fervent prayers,
Watch my lips tremble when
I listen to my pastor.
I don't need your permission
To love who I want,
In fact I don't want it.
Take my midnight screaming and fear of coming out,
Listen to my frantic pleading for a hand to hold,
Watch my eyes linger on her chest.
I am Christian.
My God doesn't hate me for who I love,
He hates you who refuse to love
While you carry His name, if
Not his blessing.
So I ask again
Who is your God?
Because mine loves all of me,
All 5'6" of queer pride.
Who is your God?

He lives in fear
Some will discover
He lives in disguise
Like a spy undercover.
He lives in suspense,
Did he let something slip.
He lives in madness
Like a bad acid trip.

It’s a topsy-turvy world
Where lying is the stock-in-trade.
False approval from peers
Is the payment for deals he made.
The pats on his back
Are what he does the whole thing for.
The social approval gives
Gifts to him too grand to ignore.

He lives in fear
Some will discover
He lives in disguise
Like a spy undercover.

Pride in who he is
A distant world he cannot see.
An Everest to climb
That threatens his mortality.
He has to lie constantly
Or forget himself accidentally.
Telling the truth will
Remove his sense of morality.

He lives in suspense,
Did he let something slip.
He lives in madness
Like a bad acid trip.

He doesn’t trust feelings
They make of him a criminal.
His relationship with pride
And self-esteem is minimal.
That others can be free
Can never apply to someone like him.
He hears there is liberation
But his own chances are very slim.

He lives in fear
Some will discover
He lives in disguise
Like a spy undercover.
He lives in suspense,
Did he let something slip.
He lives in madness
Like a bad acid trip.