you called me a dyke when i was thirteen years old,
already pressing six foot tall, equally sized in my self loathing,
desperate for friends, and you, you looked to the
dr martens on my feet and called me butch.
i cried, and wondered if i had the word queer stamped
across my forehead, or if i smelt
too much like the pussy you assumed i loved.
i had sex with a girl i didn’t like because i knew at fifteen
that lesbians don’t grow on trees like straight girls do.
we bumped against layers of fabric in her single bed,
interrupted twice because her mother wanted to know
if her “new friend” was going to stay for dinner.
no, i don’t want to fuck your boyfriend with you.
i flicked through magazines and saw brightly coloured
combat boots, winking at me from glossy pages.
two, three, four months later and the girls
that sang “i kissed a girl” at me in my
maths lessons until i cried, they were wearing them.
for years i’d worn my boots like i was carrying a cross
but when all five foot six of pretty straight girl
strutted in front of me in them, now, suddenly, it’s fashionable.
no, i don’t just need to find the “right guy”.
i’ve sat in classrooms with people that i considered friends,
people that call themselves allies. people that then turn around
and say that a child needs a mum and a dad. babies
need someone of the same “sex” as them to identify with.
i want to call their bullshit freud theory the literal mother-fucking
bollocks that it is, but i simply do not have the energy.
it is not my job to tell a girl that thinks having gay friends is
“neat” what the difference between sex and gender is.
it is not my job to calmly try and convince these people that
they are talking about things they do not understand.
the next time you squeeze your hand around your dick
on a website that’s address has both “lesbian” and “xxx” in it
remember my face when you told me you thought i was unnatural
remember my face when your eyes go white and roll back into your head
and i hope you feel bad,
i hope i ruin your orgasm
because you soiled my identity like the cum stains in your underwear.
because you are not my ally and i am not your friend.
this queer has a moan that can’t be silenced by a volume dial,
and it will never be yours to hear.