Coming Home To Myself

When I mold a queer poem that breathes too easily, too freely,
I choke it with all the pain of an unloved child. I begin with
a bland metaphor strung around its neck too tightly, then,
I forget to untie.
If it survives the night– like most of them do–
I hang it out in the sun like stinky socks and a rainbow appears.
It is not magic. It is how to say everything is beautiful
under the sun(I like this lie).
June reminds me of scars.
On my left wrist is a slash once open to myself.
Say, I have searched for doors within. Say, I have opened
myself to myself, thrice, and found more blood.
And nothing.
If I love the pointed pleasure of a girl’s breast, I know
I am un-living a truth; that I sing of the arrival of rain when I
am but a scoop of salt.
If I love a boy(not just between his thighs), then I have found
something behind a door. Not a broom. Not an umbrella hued in blue.
Say, myself.
Me.