Ripping hands from around my throat
prying greasy thick fingers out from
my mouth
screaming inside
grasping the tired air for a chance to speak
to breathe
to take up space in this room I pay to learn in.
men standing their ground
men taking my ground
men raising their voices
men shouting above my words and trying to prove me,
prove this theory, prove this gay professor
wrong
not just here
but
around every corner, behind me in every parking lot, too close in every line, every bus seat, every elevator ride
breathing down my back
always there to contradict, take back, rephrase
laugh
laugh louder,
humiliate then divide and conquer
sitting in the front to hear the words first or
sitting in the back like a king at his throne
superimpose these whacked out standards for my clothes,
my *****, my tattoos, my smiles
my frowns
bench pressing their superfluous beliefs that they’re under attack
when I flip them off, when I lead them on, when I run away, when I talk back
hard headed and white knuckled
clutching to their masculinity,
just like my throat
