FP: a narrative
summers in FP made me
smell like outside,
sweat derived from
bottomless pool sessions
and shooting hoops
with the guys
knees stained, a cherry red
pink flesh peeking underneath
play clothes doused in mud &
mama’s kisses, meanwhile my
gym shoes grew weary and
worn 2 death an
a g g r e s s i v e girl
with long, untrimmed nails
& rebellious Afro puffs I was
an oddity to untrained eyes
at summer camp:
girls would run, afraid
when I proclaimed “I’m
gay!” at the age of eight
it seemed that they’d been
plagued by my queerness.
From their distance, I was
forced into quarantine.
I could not find
the cure for
redemption.
In 7th grade:
I joined the latchkey
kids, roaming the
town alone after
school, on some
detective shit,
inspecting my
surroundings
making plans 2
meet my friend
at “our spot”
suddenly, I was 13 &
my first girlfriend was
made of Dorito dust &
Flamin Hots & strawberry
lip gloss, & softball, & drama
&–
I dreamt of kissing her
sweetly during lunch in
the bathroom stall
until I found out she’d been
having dreams of her own
with some boys I used to know
So I told her, “I can’t do this
gay shit anymore!”
suddenly, I was outed &
my ex-girlfriend was
full of lies & betrayal
& spoiled milk & flat pop
& stale hot fries & gossip
&–
In high school:
Turns out,
I lied. At 15,
I was still doing
that gay shit &
I loved it.
I found myself on
the pages of queer
YA fiction in the
library, the book
shelves became a
place for me to rest
my blooming curiosity
I lost myself in Wattpad
romances & Zane’s erotica
& my then best friend’s oblivious
eyes & their thick brown thighs
with hands as strong as
John Henry’s
I fell in love with freedom and
out of love with home, a place
where I could not exist without
holding my breath
to mama I was Poetic Justice,
angry and bitter like ripe lemon.