You Called Me B*tty Boy

You called me “b*tty boy”
a word that tumbled from your mind
and out of your mouth
unthinkingly.

Would you have been so bold
had you not been with ten of your friends?
Because its always from amorphous groups
or from the window of a moving car
that that word – and others like it –
spew.

It’s cowardice.
It’s never one-on-one
that you target someone
for who they are;
target us,
for who we are.

But whether I’m wearing a dress or
whether I have a lampshade on my fucking head
do I not have the right to be me?
To walk the street,
unbothered by your hate.

Because its so boring, so uninspired,
and I’m so fucking tired
of your hate.

Maybe its just a word to you
but it sticks to me, like gum on the shoe,
like dirty grey gum on my shoe,
like dirty grey gum on my shoe.

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