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September 19, 2018

by Bettina, Handing the keys of yourself to a Black Hole, 2009

 

 

 

 

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When did I know?

I was holding a secret beneath my tongue

Not when I grew fond of cooking shows

Not when I picked out clothes for my mom 

Carefully scraping through a bunch of drapes that looked so colourful

When I diligently picked out matching colours, did the girl inside me want to drape herself with them?

I was almost sure that I was just artistic 

Sadly, my guy friends weren’t 

When did I know?

Was it when I secretly put on make up?

Caressing my cheek bones with the powder puff,

I was sure I just liked the feel of it against my skin

When I looked at the mirror with a perfectly contoured face,

I was sure that I was just artistic

Sadly, my guy friends weren’t 

When did I know?

That the secret beneath my tongue was itching to open the doors to my brain

Was it when I looked at TV ads

Men, half naked, their torso being sprayed with musk

I was sure I wanted to be like him

Or was it when my failed attempt at Mormon crunches left me with a back ache?

It hit me then, very much like the string whiff of musk

Aching for him.

What would I tell my girlfriend?

That I was looking for what she wanted?

That I didn’t really relate to her love messages and secretly hid them away in my bedroom closet?

Or in the process was I hiding myself in one?

I knew I was aching for “him” when his prickly beard and sweaty hands radiated the same heat I hid away in my heart

Sadly, my guy friends didn’t.

I did have the option though 

To stay inside the closet or to pick off brightly coloured clothes made from all seven colours of the rainbow.

Look at me right now!

Adorned in bright clothes glad to feel the fresh air outside.

Different, but fresh.

I wake up everyday with an elaborate routine

Taking off the night cream, shaved clean, glowing like butter.

And I’m ready.

For any guy to scrape me with a butter knife

I’m also scared of how cold hearts can cut through me so easily 

And much like butter, I melt away at the softest touch.

I have reclaimed the word “queer”

It’s not strange for me anymore.

I like the feel of wind against my hair

Against my clothes 

 And of the last dab of lipstick as I press my lips tight 

I’m sure I’ve hit the pot of gold

At the end of my rainbow.

 

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