He made love like he was committing treason —
against a state,
against a god,
against every fucker
who thinks softness must be straight.
He'd kissed with his eyes open
because closing them felt like
digging his own grave.
He'd had men beg him not to say their names
like his breath carried blasphemy.
Like his orgasm was evidence.
Like desire was a crime scene
and his mouth — the goddamn murder weapon.
You want queerness curated.
Laminated.
Tucked behind trigger warnings
and pride month playlists.
You want revolution
served with a napkin.
You want to be seen clapping,
not questioned.
You say love wins.
Bitch, where?
In your ads?
Your fucking parades?
Your leadership approved corporate drag brunches?
Love doesn’t win.
It limps out of bathrooms
with its ribs kicked in.
It sits next to the emergency exit
just in case.
It flinches at its own reflection
because even mirrors
call it a phase.
He didn’t want your rainbow.
He wanted your discomfort.
He wanted your dad choking
on his Sunday lunch
when he said
“I like his hands on my hips.”
He wanted your niece asking you
why your gods never talked about closets.
You said he's brave
for showing up.
I say,
No, motherfucker —
he was just done
being your secret.
I’m exhausted with eulogies
being the only place
someone gets called beautiful.
You want poems.
I want my friend back.
The one who wore eyeliner
like it was war paint.
Who laughed like he hadn’t been raised
on sermons and slurs.
Who told me
one day he'd be safe
in daylight.
He meant it.
But the world
didn’t.
So here’s your poem:
a fuck-you in full bloom.
A funeral with no moment of silence.
A rainbow
spat out in blood.
I wish this was just art.
But I’m reading it
off the ashes of a friend
who once believed
he was more than collateral.
And if this makes you uncomfortable —
Make a dildo
out of this hard-on of a middle finger
and shove it up your asshole
until you shit on your heterosexual morals
for having surrendered your G-spot
the homosexual way.
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