heterosexuality is a blessing
because you’re late to every mass,
but still you get a free pass,
and you can lie any day
as long as it’s never with another man.
and while I too awoke at dawn
in my gentle woman’s arms,
I can’t ever again step into a church
without shaking like the life
is begging to be let out of me
so it can escape this body of sin.
I want to scream, but I just bow my head
and whisper “amen”
in hopes that a man
will be just the medicine I need
to rid myself of the sickness that
makes you cover your eyes as I go by.
the way you love is easy
because you have every right in the world
to take slow sips at normality because
it will never fail to wake up beside you
and lick the lipstick off your cheek.
she is your girl and you are her good master
and you can believe in her love after college
because her affections are too real to be a phase,
and her parents are nudging her into your arms
while my parents’ fists tighten at their sides
on my wedding day as they see me kiss my bride.
being straight is a lucky break
because you are just a man
with secrets able to be kept
while you think you know from sight alone
that I am the mother of three cats
and I thrift flannels after work
and it’s obvious to you that
my lover must be a stone-cold butch
with tribal tattoos stamped into her skin
because she is nothing more than an animal
with a motorcycle in our shared garage
and a mugshot hung on the wall
where we can never showcase
the art of a child who’s actually biologically ours.
loving the opposite sex is accepted
because the theaters have been built to handle
the hoards of people that will sacrifice hundreds
for another Sparks tale of love and loss.
and my voice may run with a river’s strength,
but never could these words alone
put out the fires set by the junkyard dogs
who drool over the dead-eyed women on Cinemax
who are spread like entrées on sweaty beds
lit so harshly that all the love is scared away.
to be heterosexual is to be fearless
because your love always trends at
the top of every leaderboard
like some kind of score to wink
back at you on the screen
and you can brag to your friends about
how many bitches you’ve screwed
while all I want is for her laughter
to float across my cheek like
a dandelion glides through spring,
and I want to feel her kisses
dewy and sweet upon my skin,
but instead I’m tearing up the grass
just to get a grip so I don’t
completely fall apart when
you call me a dyke again.
So listen here, lionheart, and listen well.
We speak a love language you do not understand.
and you hide in wet blankets knitted
from the lies you tell yourself because
you hate admitting that there are
even more women that you cannot burn.
or maybe you were raised
in the “good Christian” image
that’s as expired and even more rotten
than the yogurt in the back of my fridge.
maybe you are confused
by how girls can please other girls
or by how boys can still be men
as they love one another.
whatever the case may be,
know that we shall proclaim our love
as we dive into battle every day
while you are still asleep.
we are always warriors and
we will be damned before
we ever let go of the hands
we know we are meant to hold.