we're calling this revolution
white suburbia, you are the 50’s dream.
i never really liked history –
it spends too much time throwing shadows
over men made of brown trying to
define a foreign world they are outside of.
i’ve seen the names of free men,
none of them are ours.
you would sooner give out punches
than open your arms.
who do you want me to be?
i’ll peel off my skin and put something
new on, something you’ll
find beautiful.
i’ll be so beautiful you’ll have to
take me home at the end of the night.
you’re going to want to pull my hair –
do it harder.
it’s not enough to choke me,
you have to leave bruises
so purple i can see your fingerprints
in the caverns your hands make.
let me see them so i can understand
who you are.
i am not afraid to die here.
tell me there’s a place for us.
tell me i belong among the sinners
and the saints, not next to
the graves of friends you
gunned down in the name
of jesus christ.
you strip me of my human leather,
change me, mold me,
make me into something
that doesn’t require you to hold
a sign on street corners.
but my bones are made from
the same ivory as yours.
you and i hail from the same rib.
and that terrifies you;
i see the quiver.
i dream of prettier and braver
places from my open-lidded
casket home.
hands of the same laced and
chests full of rainbow light.
i never really liked history –
it spends too much time throwing shadows
over men made of brown trying to
define a foreign world they are outside of.
i’ve seen the names of free men,
none of them are ours.
you would sooner give out punches
than open your arms.
who do you want me to be?
i’ll peel off my skin and put something
new on, something you’ll
find beautiful.
i’ll be so beautiful you’ll have to
take me home at the end of the night.
you’re going to want to pull my hair –
do it harder.
it’s not enough to choke me,
you have to leave bruises
so purple i can see your fingerprints
in the caverns your hands make.
let me see them so i can understand
who you are.
i am not afraid to die here.
tell me there’s a place for us.
tell me i belong among the sinners
and the saints, not next to
the graves of friends you
gunned down in the name
of jesus christ.
you strip me of my human leather,
change me, mold me,
make me into something
that doesn’t require you to hold
a sign on street corners.
but my bones are made from
the same ivory as yours.
you and i hail from the same rib.
and that terrifies you;
i see the quiver.
i dream of prettier and braver
places from my open-lidded
casket home.
hands of the same laced and
chests full of rainbow light.
Mason Pierce is an insomniac who spends his time writing instead of studying for his classes. He is eighteen years old and will be facing the unfortunate realities of adulthood come the fall, when he will be moving from California to Portland, Oregon to begin college. He will be studying English and Women's Studies to combine his love of words and all things queer. You can find him at any given time getting more tattoos of flowers.
