kicking shade thrown,
peeling back eye lids that only want to go home, I see you.
and I hear you and I feel you
but the rush that you feel
to stick your hand in my chest and flip whatever you feel, inside out
…is the same rush that I feel when All I want to do is stick my hand out and say,
Hi My name is…
The fury that sounds like the earthquake released
when your tongue slaps the roof of your mouth to finish the word FAGGOT.
The crack in the earth that swallowed me whole when you broke it open with the KACK that completes the word WETBACK.
The whir of the winds that YOU called
when you SCOFFED in my direction
because for some reason a hand that gives deserves an objection
if compared to yours is an aberration.
This rush that stomps through my veins,
too scared to bloom and much too afraid
to shout and declare,
to riot with voices cracked but blared
and raise the palms that feel too heavy to raise against the stares
gets less than angered,
especially when the man who danced his knife on my skin, envious that my blood was underneath mine and not on his, tried to bleeed me of my sin
or when A bat, taken to the back of my knees seem to ring with salvation,
when a compilation of beats and throws caused my body to have a transformation of
gashes and red, purple and blue. ultimately something that was more to their satisfaction
left saddened and confused when all I was enthused to do was share this rush with you. but your strides remained true
The wings you clipped because “not even faggots can fly"
the ribs you broke because “it was adam and eve NOT ADAM AND STEVE"
The back you literately stabbed because FAGGOTS DESERVE TO DIE
and the boy you almost pushed to suicide because your words were infectious and sly
sculpted and molded a man whose not afraid to stand up here and say
good try, better luck next time.