Mismatched

 My poem for Module 2.

What’s that word again, the one for a

flame-in-the-pit-of-your-stomach, mismatched, words-scratchin-up-the-back-of-your-throat

kinda

queer?

Normal. The final frontier.

The slimy squid tentacles squeezing your sternum

Dagger through the flesh and a quick get-a-way

Do they even want you to stay?

In this world you’ve gotta

Find your own comfort. 

They won’t just give it up,

Not to someone like you.

So it’s a shirt, a crowd, a hand in yours.

A hand on your chest, unlike before.

A hand up, a hand-me-down,

A sign from above and a familiar face.

They want you to know your place.

You’re gotta overcome, find your space.

Normal won’t hold you

When you know who you are.

A star in the sky, a reason to fly.