I know
that the way dyke rolls off your tongue
says everything about you and nothing about me.
The word slices the air between us with its dissonance,
as if it lives in the hatred that swells your heart.

I know
that godhatesfags.com isn’t a personal attack,
but a demonization of something you can’t understand.
The sermons chill my blood, as if the anger
could seep through the screen and strangle me.

I know
that your silent disapproval is better
than an attack, but the disgust in your eyes
sticks to my bones, my feet stick to the ground
from the weight.

I know
that others can’t define me, can’t break me,
don’t have a say in my happiness.
But I don’t see your future
in the political landscape.

I know
what I know. But I don’t know
why it’s okay to judge me and decide my life for me when
my name.


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