Graffiti and filth
Done in darkness under hoodies
Are social commentary
When created
In different skin
The urban fashions
Eclectic and bold
Colorful designs and shapes
Are runway darlings
When stitched
By different skin
The heavy beats
Rhythms and rhymes
Syncopated and staccato
Are pointed poetry
When spoken
From different skin
The party scene
Opulent and illegal
Stoned, high, and wasted
Are A-List affairs
When thrown
By different skin
The odd behaviors
Dramas and scandals
Collections bizarre and random
Are eccentricities
When affected
With different skin
The horrible crimes
Murders and thefts
Trafficking rings and drug smugglers
Are reasonably doubted
When perpetrated
By different skin
The judgments of ethics
Struggles and worth
Behind walls and on social media
Are privileged
Entitlements
Of different skin
It’s forgettable- the number of times I was called a “fucking faggot” as a kid. As a former child of god, I wasn’t expected to know what those words meant. I was taught that repentance was vital to achieving everlasting life. My momma made me go to church every Sunday. I said my prayers as I was told. But I eventually learned that Catholicism was never my sanctuary. Christianity was never my safe-haven. God never stopped the cheap shots. He never once prevented the harassment or pure embarrassment that I felt from the words of my “kin in Christ.” Now, picture me- a helpless faggot, blinded by the incandescent lights of an old catholic church. I was home from college spending Spring Break in my former hellscape. So, naturally, my momma yet again made me go to church. This time, on a Wednesday. It was Ash Wednesday. When I was among the folks from home, I felt out of place. So much that I’d imagine camouflaging myself. Like saber-tooth in hiding. But the difference? I had a far mo...
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