Closet Cleaning

Closet Cleaning

I’m the gayest guy I know.

Seriously, in every sense of

Every stereotype about

Faggots you’ve ever heard—

That’s me.

I love women’s fashion

And Broadway.

I’ll tell my girlfriends if I think

Their man looks sexy.

I’ll talk to my girlfriends

About everything,

EVERYTHING.

Their sex lives, their cramps

The subtle signs suggesting

Whether or not a boy likes them,

EVERYTHING.

I’ll gossip and snicker

Over scandals

Or joyous news.

I’ll like your etsy page.

I actually use Pinterest.

I’m a marvelous dancer

Who sings show tunes

When no one is around.

I proudly admit to having

The

Heart

Of

A

Teenage

Girl

I just happen to love

Vaginas.

No, like seriously,

love   them

The manner in which Georgia obsessed

Over the beautiful flower is matched

In this young poet.

Poems, not paintings, but

Worship is worship.

It’s not my fault.

I did not choose who or what to be

Sexually attracted to,

It just happened.

Maybe God fucked up.

Maybe I was meant to be a dyke.

Maybe none of those precursors

Have a goddamn thing to do with sexual orientation

At all.

Maybe.

Back to

Vaginas,

And specifically yours:

I never wanted to be your gay best friend;

I serve that role for far better women.

I only ever wanted to get inside

Your head

And

Swim around.

To climb inside your skin

And see the world

Through the eyes of

Another

Broken girl.

This broken girl.

And then after,

To maybe grab your throat

And pull your hair

And slam you against a wall.

When will these women realize

That I’m just using them?

And I’m not even talking about the sex.

That’s just my way of saying

Thanks

For giving me what I really want.