self portrait of an exhausted faggot (only fags allowed) by soledad con carne

self-portrait of an exhausted faggot (only fags allowed)

poetry by soledad con carne

Hey, sometimes, I miss the closet closed off in that singular space where lavish coats and serapes kept me in a warm embrace. maybe safety was ensured, but, I was wasting away.

Hey, mentally, I was losing myself trying to fit into this tiny place that kept shrinking as I grew out of Winnie the Pooh overalls, shaved the pontytails off the top of my head, slipped into a vest with silver studs and punk patches, peeking through the crack in the door where freedom tempted me every day

Hey, the day I broke out of this tomb a rush of tears baptized me, and I was ready for my second coming, but I don’t know if anyone told them, Hey,

I don’t know if anyone told them that I broke out, finally free, Hey, I don’t know if anyone told them, but “no fags allowed” is sprayed all over my city

Hey, sometimes, I shrink and hold myself and miss the embrace the closet granted me Hey, how much is freedom really gonna cost me? What’s the price of safety and stability? strength is mandatory I never got to choose, in or out, yet, Hey, strength is the only consistency.

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the strength to fit every day holding onto the mold, slowly chipping and cracking

or the strength to let go, let it break into the pieces that built a better foundation for me, a foundation that let me stand up, yell, scream,

Hey, I'm free I'm here I'm me I'm allowed to be here because I'm free.

Hey, being Xicanx and queer is a series of explanations all in repetition. being true to yourself is hard when both sides of the border say to despise everything you are.

Hey, I’m brown like you, but you’re not down like me. I’m the warrior shedding blood for you. you’re another Malinche offering me as your sacrifice.

Hey, is that the world rumbling around me, or do I just got the shakes?

I, who, am exhausted from being seen I, who, am exhausted from explaining myself How often do I have to explain myself? Hey, how can anyone see me when I don’t want to be seen, yet I have an audience sometimes when I’m screaming

being queer in secrecy is a padlock. being out and proud is a spotlight.

I’m stuck in a timeline where I constantly have to prove I should exist. How many times do I have to fucking explain myself: I am allowed to be here, I allow myself to be here.

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Hey, She/They fuck(s) my stigmata wounds with Their dick They/He lick(s) the stigmata wounds at my feet I am all of them and they are me.

I allow myself to love here.

Hey, I’m just me.

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