I feel like my words are from my mouth.
Letters plucked out from between my teeth and into a monster I do not recognize.
My A’s turn into Q’s and my Q’s into O’s and I’m left wondering if we’re still speaking the same language.
Do you mean to my words?
Does my “I think I’m bisexual” read as “I’m going to leave you for a girl”?
Does my “I’m gay” translate into “you are not my child anymore”?
I wonder if your twisted translations stain my skin,
appearing to select audiences when the light illuminates my face just right,
as if I am physically marked by your words.
I wonder who speaks the same language as I do,
who is friend and who is foe.
I don’t think you know what it feels like to constantly gauge what language you must speak at each encounter,
for fear of speaking the wrong tongue.
I always wonder if this is the last day I’ll be able to speak my truth,
before my tongue is cut off and my language eradicated.
Why can’t you see that we speak the same words, the same letters, that
My mouth forms vowels and consonants the same way you do,
yet how we choose to express ourselves has caused such a fundamental difference
that not everyone can see past.
Your words are mine, and mine are yours.
How I hope for the day we can have a conversation out of love.
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