They often called me yellow—

marigold and mustard bellied.

Only my fear was ever apparent,

even after naked wars against the winter.

The cold burned like waxen candles—

it left my jaundiced skin searing all summer.

Gayness was a crisply-cool deathwish that

rippled right below the surface,

until I realized all I could do

was live my truth in earnest.

And in spite of my reserved nature—

this itch refused to be removed.

So there I was, this peacock,

with his coat of many colours,

wide open to assault,

that accosted me like splinters.

Inner-city youth turned circuit kid adorned in glitter—

I have worn many faces,

though the kindest ones appeared upon my sisters. 

Displaced, I lost many races

yet somehow still remained a winner;

I salvaged scraps of shrapnel

though society classified me as a sinner. 

I am me—the sum of my parts;

sexuality could never render me a victim.