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.