Butterflies, Time, and the Wardrobe

It's hard being in a closet.
The hangers hit your head and you can't see past whatever clothes you have.
But I think it's even harder being in THE closet.
Bigots are always hitting you in the head with "Being a faggot is a sin!" and
"Pfft, bisexuals aren't real," and
"Transgenders aren't right in the head!"
You can't see past the ever growing doubts you have.

But I've got this dream. And in this dream, everyone loves me.
Why wouldn't they?
I will play myself, well and truly queer,
My friends support me, my parents still love me,
My life will be as picturesque as the photos I've never seen.

And when I am out I will be *out*
I will tattoo it across my arm and shout it at the top of the mountains
And with every breath in my lungs I will make everyone know who I am!
And if they don't like it,
God help them.

I've tried my damnedest to make this a reality.
But the words build a house under my tongue too soon
Every time, I smash it down, and the beams leave splinters in my mouth
I can't speak. Not now.

It hurts like holding in a breath.
It hurts like barbed wire around the very energy that makes me who I am.
It hurts like the lakes of fire I've dreamt nightmares about.

Something inside keeps pushing me on, seemingly choiceless,
Fluttering in my core and whispering, "Things change..."
Society requires a revolution to speed up
This future cannot be soon enough
And when it changes fast enough for me I'll be free.
I can rip open my chest and let my butterflies out
And they will be pink, purple, and blue.
 

Poetry Slam: 
This poem is about: 
Me

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