A House Not Yet Home

I am a river flowing against its course,
my mother tries to dam me,
compares me to sacred texts,
to a lamp that’s lost its oil,
says I am breaking her,
that she could never face the world
with a son like me,
unthinkable, unimaginable,
every son before or after me
is soaked in my shame.

I fill her eyes
with tears corrosive as acid,
her heart just a wound
screaming for my normalcy.
But I am always too genuine,
frightening in the way I love men,
unapologetic and vulnerable.

She tells me that no god can save the one
who lives in my flesh,
and I tried to change, didn't I?
Spoke less of my love,
tried to be more acceptable,
more hidden, less present,
but even when hiding, I felt
her shame suffocating me in my sleep.

So what did I wish to do, son,
break her illusions?
You can't make homes out of human beings,
especially those who build walls inside their hearts.
And if she wants to mourn,
then let her mourn,

You are terrifying, in the ways you love,
unashamed and sacrificial.
you are strange and beautiful,
something not everyone knows how to cherish.
something they have yet to learn to love.