You tell me it makes me less of a man;
that a man would not choose this. As
if it were even a choice, like ordering a
drink in a dark bar on a Tuesday night.
My song became silenced in mid crescendo
by the creeping thunder of that word:
faggot, faggot, faggot.
Walking tall as the columns crumbled
like the last, discarded, homemade chocolate
chip cookie at the bottom of the jar.
Pretending to feel unaffected by the blades
of hate you let fall from your lips. But,
I could not stand alone forever. My smile
worn from my face replaced by clenched,
coffee stained, enamel; my body slowly
giving way as the cancerous language of
gossip engulfs me while tumors of slander
emerge from the shadows of the background.
He came to my side, my protective shell.
He held my hand and kissed me lovingly.
Lying under the covers, the roots of his
naked body intertwined with mine.
Resting my head upon his chest;
listening to the ticking of his heart as my
eyes fall heavy, and, suddenly, faggot no
longer sounds so bad.
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