Closet Case

What is it to be queer? What is it to be black? What is it be cast from both sides of the same stone? No matter wether I land on heads or tails, the decision has seem to been made long before my lips parted in departure of these failed attempts to speak. My voice is owned by a familiar phobia. Happiness doesn't exist unless under control of said phobia, I bow on broken knees, I break under the pressure of these people unrecognizable. Not even the crystal clear view could focus in on a view so gut wrenching. I smile behind the frowns of my eyes, I laugh behind the tears of my lids, holding on to what's left of the lie I hold inside. I'm all brown, black and blue. Ain't it crazy how that spectrum don't fit? How those three shades could never come one after the other? These four walls are closing in, I'm locked behind a closet door. I dare not break the hinges, dare not speak a word or look for hope. God forbid embarrassment be the wardrobe I wear today. We've been taught to dress in silence, to wear what looks appropriate but not what feels appropriate. Maintain the appearance of a lady like lipstick is the only foundation a woman needs to be beautiful. We must pay dry our faces, conceal the anguish and paint on a facade of "this is normal", knowing damn well normal is what society ordered. What's supposed to be the prime or our lives is a mockery. We rewind the hands of the clock, still nothing left to do over, just "start from here's". To be black and queer is double the struggle, double the pain, double the oppression, double the shame.

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