Do you ever have a poem

Stuck in your throat

And when ever you try to speak

You choke on the words

So you try to write it down

Instead

But

Your pencil breaks

And your pen runs out of ink

And the marker won’t

Allow itself to be used on paper

And so you just have this poem

Stuck inside you

With no way to get it out

Kinda like how there is no way

Of getting out of Depression’s sight

Yet you’ve got everyone fooled

Thinking you are okay

But it’s not your fault

You are this way in the first place

Your grandmother hated you

But lied and said

She loved you

Though, she never wanted you to speak

About the things you found important

She never wanted to listen

She judged you, always

And blamed you for your father’s suicide attempt

And you know she wouldn’t have done that if she didn’t hate you

And speaking of a father

You barely had one

He loved his drugs more than he loved you

So you blamed yourself for not being good enough

And speaking of not being good enough,

That’s why you were cheated on twice, right

But if that were the case

Then why you were good enough to be assaulted

And then followed  by the same person

And other people  who only wanted you

For those little curves you’ve got

On your body

Why were you good enough to be teased

About your height

And your hands

And your sexuality before you even knew it

And let’s not talk about your gender

Because isn’t it bad enough

You were born black and gay

Well, actually, bisexual not gay

But according to society

There is no such thing as a bisexual person

Bisexuals don’t exist

So we must be making up something

You are either straight or gay

If you classify as the in between

They’ll classify you as greedy

Because everything

Is supposed to be made into two lines

Black and white

And they just become color blind if they

See another color forming

But getting back

To that poem

You’ve got lodged

In your throat,

Have you gone to see a doctor

A specialist

Did you speak to them

Did you tell them what’s wrong

With you

Or did your pencil break in the process of you trying to

Was that the moment you ran out of ink

Was it in that moment that your marker decided it would allow itself to be used

On the paper you gave it

To mark up

Was it in this moment that all the words you had put together

In the poem

Stuck in your throat

Killed you

Was it this exact  moment when you had lost your voice

To the words you couldn’t mutter