It’s a band-aid that covers wounds
they stabbed into your hands and feet as
a child, only it never heals and it’s always there.
Because at one point they thought you
would be the second coming of Christ, greater
than Sodom and Gomorrah, straight-laced.
A shoe, boot heavy, foot-filled and below
the sole is expectations: A child, a baby, born
of blood and flesh, never, ever adopted.
The birds never sing, the bees always sting
when your father explained tender feelings of
being a real boy, it made it you rot inside.
That same infection, growing over your
body and crystallizing you in scabs, the kids
on the playground picked at it.
They called you a f*g, they called you a
queer, girl of the year, cradling baby dolls
in your arms and trying on your mother’s heels.
Whether you are top or a bottom, you’ve
always wanted to be beautiful like her and
used her hairbrush as a microphone.
When you gazed in the mirror, there was
always the realization beneath your skin like a
splinter or the claws of lobster gripping you.
It never let it go, it grew in strength,
it tore you apart and died a millions times
when your parents said he couldn’t come over.
And when he did spend the night, this boy
was your friend and eventually the two words
between deteriorated and left only one:
Boyfriend; God, how you wanted one, a prince,
a bromance without the B, someone to sleep next
to and dream of another life.
One which hadn’t been buried by the church,
your evil grandmother, the cousins who disowned
you, the dust beneath the carpet.
Swept away, family secret, shame, shame,
shame, no matter how accepting they become,
they will never know the pain.
They will never what it’s like to want to die,
to hold sleeping pills in your palm or hang
yourself with a belt; they call it crazy.
As a matter of fact, even the ones who aren’t
suicidal are seen as insane, because the
desire to kiss the same gender is an illness.
They have no idea that God is of nature,
a water spirit, washed over by tears and
called upon constantly with every breath.
Eventually you had to do it, you had to come,
out accept the desire for his torso, his legs,
his eyes and his soul; you had to die.
Because coming out feels like dying, all
at once, a gunshot to the stomach, a fingernail
pulled back on a broken hand.
It swells up over so many years, it pours
from your gazers, sometimes it still kills you
even after the cuts have healed.
When you go to family reunion and suddenly
increase in weight, you become to the
elephant in the small room.
You can hear their thoughts asking questions,
you can see the look on their faces; it’s a
troubled stare, a pluck of the hair.
Eventually they find out at work, some don’t
care and some do, sometimes there’s one
who makes you never want to clock-in.
No matter where you go, you always come
out, over and over and over again, there is
never just one door.
But it’s better to keep walking through them
and never close it for good, because one day
you’ll never come out of the coffin.