At the jewelry store,
Where shiny pieces of glass rest in shiny rings of metal
That shine just like the nickels I spent on pop-rocks at Chick's candy-store
The woman behind the counter with the burlap skin and the windproof hair
Looks up from her nail file and tells my mother I am one adorable little boy.
Immediately, I brace for impact,
For the car ride home
And the litany of things we will do to fix me.
That night after dinner
I dig to the bottom of my fire-red toy box
And I find the doll with the golden hair.
I cradle her in my arms and I wait for my mother to see me.
When she does she smiles so big,
I decide love is a silent auction
And I am worth more sold.
They wanna make us something.
They wanna tooth pick our bones
And keep us between their teeth.
My teeth use to be so crooked
They were the only thing the kids made fun of more than the crooked way I dress, walk, talk.
Listen, I am tired of wearing braces.
From my burning temples to my cold feet.
From the slack in my rope to the machine in my heart beat.
Every closet is a Russian doll with another inside.
By the time my mother finally found the words to call me her gay daughter,
I was searching for the nerve to describe the son in my eyes.
The shadow of the boy I might be or
The boy I might still love,
For the official gay record.
I never left him.
He left me because of the mirror I was.
Because the pretty had the hold on his own arm to find a home in his own skin.
In New York city, I searched for the home in my own skin
When a woman grabs me by the neck of my coat and drags me from the ladies room like a dog on a chain
And I am torn.
Between confused gratitude
And the urge to bark my pretty name into her face till she can taste the smoke of my father's pink cigar.
Lady,
Do you have any idea how many scars I already have in the shape of this boxing match?
I do not wear a Welcome mat on my chest just so you can walk all over it.
Fumbling with the keys to the locks they keep building for the doors I keep opening
Hoping someone will see the rain-forest growing in my living room.
See how many ecosystems can exist in one redwood tree.
Maybe, what you think is a tough fist
Is just a tired ballerina curling her arms around her knees.
Either way, I can guarantee a haircut will never tell you anything about someone's gender,
Who they love,
Or how they fuck.
But I'll keep growing out my short temper
For the next time I have the "opportunity" to tell someone in my queer community,
"Look, I am about as butch and a Swedish male figure skater"
As for dyke,
I will happily dance in that music box for tonight,
But tomorrow,
When I pull the word faggot from the shotgun of a frat boy's throat
Then send it in a love letter to my love so she can scratch it down my back.
Please believe,
I am taking back every bible belt that has ever cracked against my spine.
Every night,
I drove through Kansas with, I swear to god,
A pink barrette in my fuckin' pocket
In case I had to split second decide if woman would be safer armor than this,
His flashing blue lights give me ten seconds to pick what target he'll be less likely to miss.
Officer,
I'd be willing to bet those arrows would look a whole lot sharper in my cupid hands than in the dull hatchet of your hate.
Than in the way you spit the word "ma'am" down my throat
Like I might swallow it in the same gulp as my pride.
Before you decide who I am,
Remember pride?
That's my parade.
Built from the fairy wings of boys who bulldozed your barricades
The day you claimed AIDS was a gift of God.
Our wheels, started spinning like Christ turning over in his grave.
For every holy-knuckled genderbender trans-kid who's taken a knife blade to the gut.
Every blood hound that ever sucked on her pronoun
Like her self-given name was not a stained-glassed cathedral.
Their tired boots could only pray to find soul enough to touch.
Now ask me what I am,
I'll tell you all of the above and none of what they've ever listed.
I will say I have never cared to be
Nearly as much as I cared to become.
We are all instruments pulling the bows across our own lungs.
Windmills, still startling in every storm.
Have you ever seen a newborn,
Blinking at the light?
I wanna do that every day.
I wanna know what the kite called itself
When it got away,
When it escaped into the night.
That jewelry case,
A sparkling star,
With the face of the moon,
Is always winking
At some adorable little boy
With a pink cigar.