My Time Is Up
What was out of luck
for the nine hundred quadrillionth time?
I could have sworn you just said
I was doing alright.
Was that really the case? Or is there some new mistake
I have yet to account for?
Is there some new indignity I am now once again
not worth fighting for?
Or is it the sun, at last, bending in through the cracks
of trauma’s very tired door?
I am still here, bitch,
and I absolutely abhor
your attempts to make me fear what isn’t there:
terror, and the transhuman denial
of what does not happen to my undewear
when you send some new fright my way.
What — am I supposed to suddenly scream
”Alright, already! I’m not gay!”
Or am I supposed to turn traitor, like Malefor-Ozymandias, and say
”I guess I’m evil now, and I guess I’ll just betray
everyone. I am a liar, a cheat, an impostor and a fake.”
Mate,
as my homophobic male friends like to say,
isn’t it getting a little late
in your life for this kind of thing?
I know a lot of thought went into the ambient window-dressing—
about two thousand years, give or take—
but I stopped listening
when I discovered just how many little gay boys’ lives you’d violated
and whose dignities you’d taken away.
I’m not bothered by your ridiculous attempts to lay claim
to the universe. I know what’s at stake, between birth and death,
and I’m not going to wait:
my time is up.
Call it whatever you like:
courage, defiance,
destiny,
or even fate.
This Kristang Dragon
has a Roda Mundansa to reclaim.