Do you think anger is a sincere emotion or the timid motion of a fragile heart trying to beat away its pain?

Tuesday, July 30, 2013

Foreigner

     In the States, people stare at me constantly. It has become so second-nature that I can almost convince myself I don't notice the up and down examinations.

    Here in Italy, though, in the meager 11 days I have been here, I've been nearly able to forget the feeling of being an interesting specimen behind a wall of glass. Maybe it's because I look like every other pierced punk with a mohawk, or because there's no queer culture here for them to fear my belonging in, or maybe Italians just care less about the weird trans*dyke walking past them. It's a nice change, but it makes it all the more noticeable when I see the discomfited man glancing warily in my direction the entire time I wait in the queue.

     Men used to look me up and down like I was a cut of meat they were eager to gnaw on, striking fear into me. Now, though, their eyes deflect skittishly away, as though I were the frightening one.

Saturday, July 27, 2013

As I sit here with the sun beginning to kiss the horizon,
I write you a poem because dreams of you
still dance through my head.

Watching the foreign sky turn pink,
I finally admit that I am writing you a love poem.
I was never supposed to love you.

I wish I could say that I regret this,
but imagining the next time I can be wrapped in your arms
forces me to admit that's a lie.

With an energy that draws me in,
an interpreter's expressions and a smile that holds me there,
I love you.