Wings

Sup queers.

I am 17.

We are dancing to

Minaj and Mulan

in her maroon Mazda.

We welcome him with hellos,

ask him to join our party.

But her.

She says

Sup queers.

He is 18.

One week ago he melted

his heart for us.

Revealed the color

behind his

cement walls.

Didn't dare to say the word.

Couldn't even type it

without anxiety.

But her.

She says

Sup queers

Like it could be mistaken for

“Hello.”

Mistaken for

“I believe in you.”

Mistaken for

“I understand you and will love you always.”

Still she says

Sup queers.

I can feel the cringe on the back of his neck.
It's on mine too.

I push it back

and join the laughter.

She twisted his soul

into a sick joke.

He glared at us with what

I can only imagine was

disdain.

How that phrase

could still run through

his veins,

pumping through his body

like an infection.

Sup queers.

Later when we dropped

him off she said she didn't mean it.

She didn't mean it in a bad way.

She didn't think about that stuff.

She didn't think about how

that word was used to destroy

whole persons into

one broken category.

Mush whole groups into

one blank page.

Tell everyone different

how funny they are.

Say what a sick joke they really are.

Let's laugh then.

It's funny.

Sup my queers.

Let's laugh at our name.

Let's laugh at the hate thrown at us.

Let's giggle at the wounded.

Let's point at the ones jumping

from towers,

claiming they'll sprout wings

if they reach the right speed.

She is 17.

Doesn't know of the hate she spews.

He is 18.

Has seen too much of it.

I am 17.

I wonder if after we leave

he'll try to grow wings.

He is 18.

Tells me he hates himself.

He is 18.

Tells me he's seen too much.

He is 18.

Said he didn't want gay to be his identifier.

Didn't know what he'd do if it was.

He is 18.

Says he might try to fly.

He is 18.

Says it might be exhilarating.

He is 18.

Enough is enough.

I am 17.

I talk him off the bird's nest.

You don't need wings.

You can fly if you want to.

Just spread your arms.

Close your eyes.

Picture your boyfriend.

Picture your life.

Picture everything in its perfect place.

Picture yourself saying it.

How can that not be exhilarating?

Sup queers.

Yes, that's you.

That's you with the

smarts and the strut.

Just the right kind of

balance between

man and boy.

Don't take yourself

too seriously.

Sup queer.

Yeah, that's you.

That's me.

That's your future boyfriend.

That's the son your mother accepted.

That's the sibling your brother is proud of.

That's the love you are.

That's the love you will always be.

That's you.

Sup queer.

That isn't so bad now,

is it?

Reviews

[SquinklaPsyOps]

So many tender expressions for all eternity... your phrasing and imagery place this piece in the category of skillful art.

[Cherry Pepperweb]

I really liked this, it's a good lesson for us all. We need to think before we speak.