When you call me faggot, you
expect my shrinking, the
breath catch startle and flinch,
my eyes, the white widening,
dagger, razor-sharp, thrown
with surgical precision, you
imagine, watching me flail,
wounded animal, bleeding
deer, stumbling around,
futile, forested floor, o,
the brutality of man.
But no,
the moment you say it, faggot,
our pupils dilate, mine, yours, I see
you, and, worse, you see me see
you, stammering your hate,
shouting to keep your smallness
at bay, and, despite our knowing
your misfire was a shot to kill,
pity blooms in my chest
at the fearful beast, cornered
dog, watching me see you.
You, who will never know
the lightness of loving, the
dancefloor-belted chorus,
grotesque the heart that finds
rage in rainbows, what
terrible company you must be
to yourself, lazy daggers and
hand-me-down hatred,
you, fearful, small, lazy, and
smug, lonely are your
limits, and desperate,
your daggers.
michael king 