Dear straight people,
Who do you think you are? Do you have to make it so obvious that I make
you uncomfortable? Why do I make you uncomfortable?
Do you know that makes me uncomfortable? Now we’re both uncomfortable. Dear straight people,
You’re the reason we stay in the closet. You’re the reason we even have a closet.
I don’t like closets, but you made the living room an unshared space
and now I’m feeling like a guest in my own house. Dear straight people,
Sexuality and gender? Two different things combined in many different ways.
If you mismatch your socks, you understand. Dear hip-hop,
Why are you fascinated with discovering gay rappers?
Gay people rap. Just like gay people ride bikes and eat tofu. Dear straight people,
I don’t think God has a sexual orientation, but if she were straight, she’d be a dope
ally. Why else would she invent rainbows? Dear straight women,
I mean, “straight women.” Leave me the fuck alone!
Dear straight men, If I’m flirting with you
it’s because I think it’s funny. Just laugh. Dear straight people,
I’m tired of proving that my love is authentic, so I’m calling for reparations on your ass.
When did you realize you were straight? Who taught you?
Did it happen because your parents are divorced? Did it happen because your parents are not
divorced? Did it happen because you sniffed too much
glue in fifth grade? Dear straight people,
Why do I have to prove my love is authentic? Why do I have to prove my love is authentic?
Why do I have to prove my love is authentic? Why do you have to stare at me when I’m holding
my girlfriend’s hand like I’m about to rob you? Dear straight people,
You make me want to fuckin’ rob you! Dear straight allies,
Thank you — more please! Dear straight bullies,
You’re right. We don’t have the same values. You kill everything that’s different.
I preserve it. Tell me, what happened to
Jorge Mercado? Sakia Gunn?
Lawrence King? What happened to the souls alienated
in-between too many high school walls, who planned the angles of their deaths in
math class, who imagined their funerals as ticker-tape
parades, who thought the afterlife was more like an
afterparty? Did you notice that hate
is alive and well in too many lunch rooms, taught in the silence of too many teachers,
passed down like second-hand clothing from too many parents? Dear Queer Young Girl,
I see you. You don’t want them to see you
so you change the pronouns in your love poems to “him” instead of “her.”
I used to do that. Dear straight people,
You make young poets make bad edits. Dear straight people,
Kissing my girlfriend in public without looking to see who’s around
is a luxury I do not fully have yet. But tonight, I am drunk in my freedom,
grab her hand on the busiest street corner in Philadelphia,
zip my fingers into hers and press our lips firmly,
until we melt their stares into a standing ovation, imagine
that we are in a sea of smiling faces, even when we’re not
and when we’re not, we start shoveling,
digging deep into each other’s eyes, we say, “Hey, Baby, can’t nothing stop this tonight,”
because tonight, this world is broken and we’re the only thing
that’s going to keep it together.