I know you can't pray the gay away,
but can it be obliterated by rape?
Can a society passive with bigotry
turn bi men into straights? Statistics
don't lie, or do feminine wiles
transcend gender, orientation, and 
genetic drive. The difference gives
glimpses into pan sexual rates

in a world where cock rubbing is worse
than man slaughter. Men's laughter echoes
hardest at taboos breached between cheeks
for those squeaks speak to the cheat of loving
men with equal odds. I am a split mirror.

Cracked by past attacks,
the smiles at homo jabs,
the color coding,
wrist holding,
horny imploring,
girls as rewards,
guys who fall dead.
My two music heroes
gone before I was ten.

Would Mercury and Ashman have
paved the way for a fluid self
if they lived to make a musical
about loving the gay interior?
Or would my inferiority comp-het
have been set by local programing?

I once found myself missing the smile and support of a friend who hugged me despite being a pariah of the basketball court. One day out of a thousand, his mom found me walking. And every day since, I longed for that van to slow my spin.

I winced to receive help, the embrace was made short
by my need to rebel, but years later that kind savior
sat in my mind as a source of comfort I longed but never
had. And I go mad. Lost in the thought that my hurt

was a product of worst days
coming with the phase of the
moon. No swoon, or special
handshake could've shook
me from that heartache.
Was I always borderline gay
because of personality disorders?
Were my quirks broken
autism or intimacy shards?

I am no closer to piecing the jigsaw or my psyche
back to anything pretty. I will always be this fractured
thing, but at least the way I live is now mine to fuck up.
So I love most by what I give. So I give large.

Growing flushed by oversharing,
broke by spending too much,
cause I can't trust words of praise
to convey my thanks. In the slur
of competing brains, my war against
silence turns cadence violent
among that calm without me.

I give what I can when I stand and this hand goes to fist
though I'm trying to be a better man. I've still only hit
the walls and myself, cause my head is the source
of all my hell. I wanna be the causal smile
I see in those I admire,

and even the warmth they bring
to my heart, when I consider
an embrace that could last
more than a minute. How it might
feel to be held and cherished,
is a taboo rarely wondered
and a friendship dead and buried.

Once men could hold hands
and even rest their heads
on the crook of a lazy neck.
But fear mongering took that.
Another twinkle of hope
covered in the news glow.

So I give love in words real as Hallmark
and hug brief as greetings from Wall-Mart.
I give how men must,
so that we keep trust,

that our words of love
never linger longer than
any commercial before
glam girls sell body wash,
to half a population scared
to look at their own junk.