i walked in the palm of my father's hands,
uncomfortable under his gaze
i cut the strings long ago, but
this image remains, an epitaph
of my youth-filled days
i hid from the touch of my brother,
because he used to touch me in ways
i didn't like, but the strong carry on
and our hero capes we don, when really
we'd like to end it with a kitchen knife
i remember the smell of my lover,
7&7's before seven AM, he'd light
up a smoke while telling a racist joke,
i took that vice with me when i finally
got the guts to run