Who I Am

I am a very violent quilt 

built with threads of tiny sways of thought that

influence the minds eye of the blind child I was

and my brain

is a patchwork that grinds like clockwork

to help me be a part  

of a new class of jocks that are just dying to go to work

I am but a beautiful brick

picked carefully and made without a false stone or stick

to be placed in a wall 

for security like paul blart at the mall

and my hands

were cut from marble with the passive looks from housewives

who never figured out that they were the apartheid 

categorized and organized to 

stupefy fine young men and women with their anachronistic backsides

but still, I’m just, like, this toxic bane

that wreaks with privilege and acts insane;

a suburban filled with groceries 

that’ll always forget your middle name

and my face 

is a serial number that beeped at the checkout 

when I was sold out, doomed to never come out

by the homophobes that made me 

I am a sulking and bloated exhalation

leaving the lips of a cheated on girlfriend 

demanding explanation for the gray undertones in her life

when she finds that that she has entered a morgue and not a relationship

and, still, my eyes

will fill with glassy fake emotion

so that I can fawn over the room of your house that is painted red with hatred and devotions

and I’ll share mine too

and laugh so you'll think I'm cool

but its still so terrifying that I am who I am

because if I was raised next door I could hate people like who I am 

but I will sit in my lovely red rose

blood colored room and 

berate you

and feel safe about who I am