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he called me a fag—
close up
to my ear
prolonged
to make sure
i’d hear
on the pulsing
dance floor
breath hot—after
thinking i must be
shitting
because i’d sat
on the toilet
and with the
stall door between
us i buttoned
up my shirt scared
he’d still
be there when
i was done
pissing
and see
my scars and make some
assumption although
men are rather
oblivious and probably
i could make
up a lie that would
be believed

i don’t know what my point is—
that i was hatecrimed
because he disliked
me personally and maybe
only called me a fag for
something to say and didn’t
even clock the
faggot necklace
that hung
right between
my scars the ghosts
where my tits used to be

i don’t know what my point is—
that this too is still, in a way,
a good thing, to be called a fag—
not just called but shouted
into my ear FAG!—the way a man
would be because i am
a man, that is, and so he wanted
to fight me like one

and although i ro
manticize the
bloody fists and
scabbed knuckles i’ve never
actually had any and
probably never will and
probably always will
romanticize them—i want you
to hit me as hard as you can—
and so i will continue to
imagine what would've happened
if instead of hiding in the stall,
faglike, i had faced him and told him
to fuck off, manlike, or maybe
what i did was more manly
to not engage
with his bullshit
that i still don’t really
understand—i don’t know

i don’t know what my point is