Sticks, Stones, and Glass Houses

If I were not gay, I would be too Afro-centric. If I invested in white supremacy and did not speak of that “slavery stuff“, I would still be in New York. If I lived in Philadelphia, I still am not studying (insert profitable major) and theology. If I was studying (insert profitable major), I would still be learning about the corruption of the world. If I was not socially conscious, I would still be a Muslim; because, I have chosen not to consume pork. If I were a devout Christian, I still am not married. If I was married I still do not have children. If I had children, a wife, worshipped White Male Jesus at a tabernacle, only read the bible, studied law and theology, and lived dumbfounded in the phantasmagoria of our culture I would be perfect. If I was perfect I would be able to fit into the perfect family, the one to which I was born.

My parents speak of others. They speak of the neighbors’ marriage, Sister Johnson’s children, Judge Maybelline, Oprah, Tyra, who is going to hell, and what they are doing to erase their name from the book of life. They are perfect. They live in a glass house in which they walk around naked. Those on the outside stare in with awe at the carpet arrangements and the sanctity of their marriage. A family so nuclear, pedestrians wait for the explosion.-it will never come, because my parents are perfect.

Bricks with, ”FAGGOT!” sprawled across them crash through the walls, and my parents cry out to WHITE MALE JESUS for forgiveness. I am their Jonah to bear. I sit and watch as the house begins to shatter and fresh air begins to flow through. I can breathe. My hands are cut from cleaning the ceiling I broke. My hands are covered with blood. My hands are trying to carry the weight of the bricks up to my glass room; hopefully, the floor will not collapse into the kitchen. I was once afraid that brick would one day strike me. The scars from being struck before are indented into my soul.

In the glass house, exists a perfect version of me. I loathe interaction with this boy because in his presence I am repulsive. My skin is too dark, hips too wide, penis too small, dimples too deep, actions too callow, words too infantile, nature too base, thoughts too perverse, soul too evil. I confront the perfect me every time I converse with my mother or father. They converse with him as I stand cloaked in black cotton. “Is the devil in the house of the glass people?” asks a persistent onlooker. I have been asked to stay behind the bricks I have collected in my room. I will be invisible and can frolic in the darkness.

Dried platelets and hemoglobin on my genitalia. I long to take these clothes off, expose myself to myself. I realize my perfection is afraid of imperfection. My existence condemns him and he needs adulation to survive. I am ominous. I wish to warn him. He has only barely escaped. I remember one day I was hit with a brick, no walls to break its impact, to ricochet its direction. I was hit from a close range and given the foundation of my wall; that was the day I shattered to pieces and a wind blew me into the sea.

P.S. I would like to thank all the people who voted me Best Teen Blog for the third year in a row. (MUAHZ!)

-Marz