This is the third of a four-poem series featuring BXTCH (pronounced "butch".) You can find out more about BXTCH at https://www.bxtch-poetry.com/ or on Instagram at @bxtch_boi.
This is the poem as it appeared in zine format:
Full poem in text:
have you ever felt out of place
in the only place you know?
in every place you know?
have you ever sat in your house
and wished that you could go home
do you know what it’s like
for everyone you love
to secretly hate you
to walk into a room full of family
and hear hushed voices
and feel cold stares
to be spectacle
to feel foreign
in a place once familiar
50 of my people died yesterday.
in a hail of bullets.
in a gay bar.
in a “safe space”
a facebook friend pointed out the irony of this
and i physically felt
the irony of this
the same way i felt
every shot
every headline
the same way
i felt my body go numb
saw my blood spill
my heart stop
remembering the irony
of hearts stopping
in a club named “Pulse.”
and again
i think about “safe spaces”
about how home is supposed to be one of those.
about how often it is not.
about how often i die.
bigotry of my loved ones weaponized
words from my grandmother’s bible
the bullets in my chest.
whispers and stares
that deem me spectacle,
foreign among my familiar,
the poison in my cup.
the tears on my pillow
that fell silently
the only proof of my humanity
of my existence
and if there is a god
then it is me
christ returned
the dead that walks the earth
50 of me
resurrected in these words
but not for the forgiveness of sins
or the saving of my murderers.
rather,
as a fuck you.
as a yes bitch, i’m still here
and yes i’m still queer.
as a praise dance
in worship of me, god
of us
all 50
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