Pride (in the Name of Love)

I was born hetero,

a vixen who loves dickin’,

fantasizing phallus,

slut-shamed and blamed

by the same doctors dosing

malicious medicine:

demanding compliance:

you don’t have to

sacrifice yourself—

they’ll do it for you,

murder your love

in defense of their hate,

throwing around words

like “groom” and “castrate.”

Rights are for whites,

not coloreds, especially not

those coloreds, choosing

them all, while we blame

drag queens

for the evil incels do,

cherry-picking the Bible tree,

rules for thee but not for me.

Maybe the Last Supper

was a circle jerk

and Judas was late

by thirty.

While subversive thought and speech

get crucified (don’t worry,

it’s a slow death,

you have time)

tell us about the trial,

the fair hearing on a hill,

three crosses still:

one for him, one for her

another for thee

but none for me—

the weight of my devotion

to playing God in your life

is too heavy for a wooden cross

to support, and I have the goldsmiths

fashion a replica

I hang

around my neck,

a pretty mockery

of the thing

putting splinters

in other backs,

relieving me

of the need to stab.

The contents of this

carcass on the cross

collapse inside

the judgment you

celebrate

when a savior dies.

No wonder the tomb was empty:

it was robbed

before the first deposit cleared.

The check continues to bounce.