mask

it's not merely my face
which this mask of mine obscures,
but all the little things deemed so
inconvenient for the world,
like the sadnesses and worries stitching
creases in my brow,
and the fury and apprehension
towards those hating me right now,

and the fear of my rejection only
serves to make concrete
the necessity of this overweighted
blight of memory, which
persists because so many of you
want me not to cry
just because your own perception
has determined me a guy,

and if that were not enough to keep me
deep and hid within,
don't forget how much you ascertain
from just the colour of my skin,
as if value dost decrease with
every drop of melanin,

and how many friends even know
that i sit here, a queer
who divested self of gender
in their own fifth fucking year,
only to have it cast upon them
with a great and deep malign,
and the threat of losing everything
to hands of the divine?
(but they still eat at that hateful place
because the service is so good;
how i wonder how ugandans feel
knowing the price of all their food)

this mask no longer covers face
but swallows all of me,
built by scorn, tanned by hatred,
screwed in with animosity,
and my brain in its divergence
struggles every single day
with the mouthpiece taped upon me
forming words i loathe to say,
but a smile's all they're wanting
so that's what they'll have to get,
though I'm hoping they'll come near enough
to see my cheeks are wet.