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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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