By Tyree Jackson

I’ve bitten my tongue one too many times.
Tasting my blood of defeat.
But above all else, I wish I would just speak.
To tell him to shut the fuck up already.

And show him that I’ve tolerated his degrading uses
of the words, queer, gay, and fag long enough.
But every time I protest, it is I who tastes blood of
defeat.

And locks myself in my room, to scream and cry
about being too weak.
He wants me to “act like a man.”
And to “grow a set of balls.”

Shit, why doesn’t he just clone me to be six feet tall?
And be a man without a job and no morals at all?
And brag to my homeboys about my sex life and refer to women as bitches.
Or to pick on boys like me—who he wouldn’t mind giving stitches.

And yet, he wants me to “act like a man.”
No, he wants me to be more like him.