What do you see
when you look at me?
A disgusting, sinful boy?
Or a suitably convenient decoy?
Do you see sickness?
Or do you see bravery?
A man being different and
fighting the straight-world slavery?
When I look at you,
I’ll tell you what I see.
I see someone scared.
Anxious and under-prepared.
I see someone terrified of difference,
wildly in love with blandness,
with a contorted affection for sameness.
I see a person battling with the crowbar
that is trying to prise their small mind open.
It is you who is different, my friend,
for you are one of few who cannot accept.
You are the newest entrant to that most
quickly diminishing group around the globe.
You are, my friend, a hateful homophobe.
And I think you should know, my friend,
that no matter what you think and say,
I couldn’t care less at the end of the day,
its your problem, not mine, that I’m gay.