I want to tell them what my flesh
dies to feel everyday
but they won’t understand.

I go every week, to their home
And the Queer there
Call me weird.
I try to talk to them
They’re comfortable with who they are
but I’m torn.
between who I am,
and who I want to be.

They hug and kiss on the roads
and shed off
what people may say,
but I can’t.
because what I’ve been taught since
I was 6 was
Loving some is good,
but loving others is not.

But I love him,
and my wife cries at home when
I can’t love her.
I can’t even cry.

Why can’t I drape myself
In pastels of yellow, blue, green?
And walk what they call a pride parade?

Why can they express, but
I have to sleep in a closet
Under my fathers stairs?

So I’ll walk into
their home
to see
whether
they bleed pink
or silver
or any colour they’ve painted on their faces.

Why isn’t anyone listening?
Am I alone here?

They bled the color red.

My heart goes out to the families of the victims of the Orlando shooting. In regards to the shooter, it kills me to know that people struggle with their identity every single day, in all corners of the world. We have a long way to go.

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