25

25… I am 25 years old and the cutting glares, the jagged judgment from strangers on the street still chink my armor Exposing my blackened limbs, splattered with the remnants of lies once lived I am 25 years old and I’m still scared to hold my boyfriend’s hand in public because people, hateful people, display their disgust, their disapproval, their disappointment promptly on their brow. As if my life, my sexual orientation somehow affects them, infects them, injects my deadly sin in them. I am 25 years old And yes, this is my boyfriend And no, we don’t want to **** you And yes, we’re second class citizens And no, we didn’t cause 9/11 And yes, we are exclusive And no, God doesn’t hate us And yes, we want a family And know, God doesn’t hate us. I am 25 years old