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.